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CHRISTUS 



A MYSTERY 



BY 



/ 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



IN THREE PARTS 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



38407 



Copyright, 1851, 1868, 1871, 1872, and 1879, 
By henry WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright, 1896 and 1899, 
By ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW. 

All rights reserved. 



TWOCOi-ir,, ^£Cc;iV60, 







^ 

t 



CONTENTS 



Page 
Introitus 9 



PART ONE. — THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 

THE FIRST PASSOVER. 

I. Vox Clamantis IS 

II. Mount Quarantania . 16 

III. The Marriage in Cana 17 

IV. In the Cornfields ig 

V. Nazareth 20 

VI. The Sea of Galilee 21 

VII. The Demoniac of Gadara 23 

VIII. Talitha Cumi > . 24 

IX. The Tower of Magdala 25 

X. The House of Simon the Pharisee 26 

THE SECOND PASSOVER. 

I. Before the Gates of Mach^rus 31 

II. Herod's Banquet-Hall 32 

III. Under the Walls of Mach^rus 33 

IV. NiCODEMUS AT NiGHT 34 



iv COXTEXTS. 

V. Blind Bartimeus 35 

Vl. Jacob's Well 37 

VII. The Coasts of Ccsarea Philippi 38 

VII The Young Ruler 40 

I? ^T Bethany 41 

X. BI^rn Blind . 42 

XI. Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre -43 

THE THIRD PASSOVER. 

I. The Entry into Jerusalem 49 

II. Solomon's Porch 50 

III. Lord, is it I ? 52 

IV. The Garden of Gethsemane 53 

V. The Palace of Caiaphas 54 

VI. Pontius Pilate 56 

VII. Barabbas in Prison 57 

VIII. EccE Homo 58 

IX. Aceldama 59 

X. The Three Crosses 60 

XI. The Two Maries 61 

XII. The Sea of Galilee . 61 

Epilogue 64 

First Interlude. The Abbot Joachim -65 

PART TWO. —THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

Prologue 71 

I. 

I The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine • • • • 73 

II. Court- Yard of the Castle . • 76 



CONTENTS. V 

II. 

I. A Farm in the Odenwald 78 

II. A Room in the Farm-House 81 

III. Elsie's Chamber 82 

IV. The Chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula .... 83 
V. A Village Church 84 

VI. A Room in the Farm-House 88 

VII. In the Garden 88 

III. 

I. A Street in Strasburg ... .... 89 

II. Square in Front of the Cathedral 91 

III. In the Cathedral 92 

IV. The Nativity. A Miracle-Play 93 

IV. 

I. The Road to Hirschau 98 

II. The Convent of Hirschau 99 

III. The Scriptorium loi 

IV. The Cloisters 102 

V. The Chapel 103 

VI. The Refectory 104 

VII. The Neighboring Nunnery 107 

V. 

I. A Covered Bridge at Lucerne no 

II. The Devil's Bridge m 

III. The St. Gothard Pass 112 

IV. At the Foot of the Alps 112 



vi CONTENTS. 

V. The Inn at Genoa 115 

VI. At Sea 116 



VI. 

I. The School of Salerno 116 

II. The Cottage in the Odenvvald 120 

III. The Castle of Vautsberg 122 

Epilogue 123 

Second Interlude. Martin Luther 125 

PART THREE. — THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 

I. 

John Endicott 133 

Prologue 137 

II. 

Giles Corey of the Salem Farm*? 167 

Prologue 171 

Finale. St. John .... 197 

Notes 201 



CHRISTUS 

A MYSTERY. 



INTROITUS. 



The Angel bearing the Prophet 
Habakkuk through the air. 

Prophet. Why dost thou bear me 
aloftj 

Angel of God, on thy pinions 
O'er realms and dominions ? 
Softly I float as a cloud 

In air, for thy right hand upholds me, 
Thy garment enfolds me ! 

A Jigel. Lo ! as I passed on my way 
In the harvest-field I beheld thee. 
When no man compelled thee, 
Bearing with thine own hands 
This food to the famishing reapers, 
A flock without keepers ! 
The fragrant sheaves of the wheat 
Made the air above them sweet ; 
Sweeter and more divine 
Was the scent of the scattered grain, 
That the reaper's hand let fall 
To be gathered again 
By the hand of the gleaner ! 
Sweetest, divinest of all. 
Was the humble deed of thine. 
And the meekness of thy demeanor ! 

Prophet. Angel of Light, 

1 cannot gainsay thee, 
I can but obey thee ! 

Angel. Beautiful was it in the Lord's 
sight, ^ 
To behold his Prophet 
Feeding those that toil, 
The tillers of the soil. 
But why should the reapers eat of it 
And not the Prophet of Zion 
In the den of the lion? 
The Prophet should feed the Prophet ! 
Therefore I thee have uplifted. 
And bear thee aloft by the hair 
Of thy head, like a cloud that is drifted 
Through the vast unknown of the air ! 
Five days hath the Prophet been lying 



In Babylon, in the den 

Of the lions, death-defying, 

Defying hunger and thirst ; 

But the worst 

Is the mockery of men ! 

Alas ! how full of fear 

Is the fate of Prophet and Seer ! 

Forevermore, forevermore. 

It shall be as it hath been heretofore ; 

The age in which they live 

Will not forgive 

The splendor of the everlasting light, 

That makes their foreheads bright. 

Nor the sublime 

Fore-running of their time ! 

Prophet. O tell me, for thou knowest. 
Wherefore and by what grace, 
Have I, who am least and lowest, 
Been chosen to this place. 
To this exalted part ? 

Angel. Because thou art 
The Struggler ; and from thy youth 
Thy humble and patient life 
Hath been a strife 
And battle for the Truth ; 
Nor hast thou paused nor halted. 
Nor ever in thy pride 
Turned from the poor aside. 
But with deed and word and pen 
Hast served thy fellow-men ; 
Therefore art thou exalted ! 

Prophet. By thine arrow's light 
Thou goest onward through the night, 
And by the clear 
Sheen of thy glittering spear ! 
When will our journey end ? 

A ngel. Lo, it is ended 1 
Yon silver gleam 
Is the Euphrates stream. 
Let us descend. 
Into the city splendid, 
Into the City of Gold ! 

Prophet. Behold I 



INTROITUS, 



As if the stars had fallen from their 
places 

Into the firmament below, 

The streets, the gardens, and the va- 
cant spaces 

With light are all aglow ; 

And hark ! 

As we draw near, 

What sound is it I hear 

Ascending through the dark ? 
Angel. The tumultuous noise of the 
nations, 

Their rejoicings and lamentations, 



The pleadings of their prayer. 
The groans of their despair, 
The cry of their imprecations. 
Their wrath, their love, their hate ! 

Prophet. Surely the world doth wait 
The coming of its Redeemer ! 

Ajigel. Awake from thy sleep, O 
dreamer ! 
The hour is near, though late ; 
Awake ! write the vision sublime. 
The vision, that is for a time. 
Though it tarry, wait ; it is nigh : 
In the end it will speak and not lie. 



PART ONE. 

THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 

THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



THE FIRST PASSOVER 



I. 

vox CLAMANTIS. 

John the Baptist. Repent ! repent ! 

repent ! 
For the kingdom of God is at hand, 
And all the land 
Full of the knowledge of the Lord shall 

be 
As the waters cover the sea, 
And encircle the continent 1 

Repent ! repent ! repent ! 

For lo, the hour appointed, 

The hour so long foretold 

By the Prophets of old, 

Of the coming of the Anointed, 

The Messiah, the Paraclete, 

The Desire of the Nations, is nigh ! 

He shall not strive nor cr^', 

Nor his voice be heard in the street ; 

Nor the bruised reed shall he break. 

Nor quench the smoking flax ; 

And many of them that sleep 

In the dust of earth shall awake. 

On that great and terrible day, 

And the wicked shall wail and weep, 

And be blown like a smoke away, 

And be melted away like wax. 

Repent ! repent ! repent ! 

O Priest, and Pharisee, 
Who hath warned you to flee 
From the \NTath that is to be ? 
From the coming anguish and ire? 
The axe is laid at the root 
Of the trees, and every tree 
That bringeth not forth good fruit 
Is hewn down and cast into the fire ! 

Ye Scribes, why come ye hither ? 
In the hour that is uncertain, 



In the day of anguish and trouble. 
He that stretcheth the heavens as a cur- 
tain 
And spreadeth them out as a tent, 
Shall blow upon you, and ye shall 

wither, 
And the whirlwind shall take you away 

as stubble ! 
Repent ! repent ! repent ! 

Priest. Who art thou, O man of 
prayer ! 
In raiment of camel's hair, 
Begirt with leathern thong. 
That here in the wilderness, 
With a cry as of one in distress, 
Preachest unto this throng ? 
Art thou the Christ ? 

John. Priest of Jerusalem, 
In meekness and humbleness, 
I deny not, I confess 
I am not the Christ ! 

Priest. What shall we say unto 
them 
That sent us here ? Reveal 
Thy name, and naught conceal ! 
Art thou Elias ? 

John. No ! 

Priest. Art thou that Prophet, then, 
Of lamentation and woe, 
Who, as a symbol and sign 
Of impending vvTath divine 
Upon unbelieving men, 
Shattered the vessel of clay 
In the Valley of Slaughter? 

John. Nay. 

I am not he thou namest ! 

Priest. Who art thou, and what is 
the word 
That here thou proclaimest ? 

John.^ I am the voice of one 
Crying in the wilderness alone : 
Prepare ye the way of the Lord ; 



i6 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Make his paths straight 

In the land that is desolate ! 

Priest. If thou be not the Christ, 
Nor yet Elias, nor he 
That, in sign of the things to be, 
Shattered the vessel of clay 
In the Valley of Slaughter, 
Then declare unto us, and say 
By what authority now 
Baptizest thou ? 

John. I indeed baptize you with 
water 
Unto repentance ; but He, 
That coraeth after me, 
Is mightier than I and higher ; 
The latchet of whose shoes 
I am not worthy to unloose ; 
He shall baptize you with fire. 
And with the Holy Ghost ! 
Whose fan is in his hand ; 
He will purge to the uttermost 
His floor, and garner his wheat, 
But will burn the chaff in the brand 
And fire of unquenchable heat ! 
Repent I repent I repent ! 



II. 

MOUNT QUARANTANIA. 

I. 

Ljicifer. Not in the lightning's 
flash, nor in the thunder. 
Not in the tempest, nor the cloudy 
storm. 
Will I array my form ; 
But part invisible these boughs asun- 
der. 
And move and murmur, as the wind 
upheaves 
And whispers in the leaves. 

Not as a terror and a desolation. 

Not in my natural shape, inspiring fear 

And dread, will I appear ; 
But in soft tones of sweetness and per- 
suasion, 
A sound as of the fall of mountain 
streams, 
Or voices heard in dreams. 

He sitteth there in silence, worn and 

wasted 
With famine, and uplifts his hollow 

eyes 



To the unpitying skies ; 
For forty days and nights he hath not 

tasted 
Of food or drink, his parted lips are 
pale. 
Surely his strength must fail. 

Wherefore dost thou in penitential 

fasting 
Waste and consume the beauty of thy 
youth ? 
Ah, if thou be in truth 
The Son of the Unnamed, the Ever- 
lasting, 
Command these stones beneath thy 
feet to be 
Changed into bread for thee ! 
Christiis. 'T is wTitten : Man shall 
not live by bread alone, 
But by each word that trom God's 
mouth proceedeth ! 

II. 

Liici/er. Too weak, alas I too weak 
is the temptation 
For one whose soul to nobler things 
aspires 
Than sensual desires ! 
Ah, could I, by some sudden aberration, 
Lead and delude to suicidal death 
This Christ ot Nazareth ! 

Unto the holy Temple on Moriah, 
With its resplendent domes, and mani- 
fold 
Bright pinnacles of gold, 
Where they await thy coming, O Mes- 
siah ! 
Lo, I have brought thee ! Let thy 
glor}' here 
Be manifest and clear. 

Reveal thyself by royal act and gesture, 
Descending with the bright triumphant 
host 
Of all the highermost 
Archangels, and about thee as a vesture 
The shining clouds, and all thy splen- 
dors show 
Unto the world below ! 

Cast thyself down, it is the houi 

appointed ; 
And God hath given his angels charge 

and care 



THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



17 



To keep thee and upbear 
Upon their hands his only Son, the 

Anointed, 
Lest he should dash his foot against a 
stone 
And die, and be unknown. 
Christtis. 'T is written : Thou shall 
not tempt the Lord thy God ! 



Lucifer. I cannot thus delude him 
to perdition ! 
But one temptation still remains untried, 

The trial of his pride. 
The thirst of power, the fever of ambi- 
tion ! 
Surely by these a humble peasant's son 
At last may be undone ! 

Above the yawning chasms and deep 
abysses, 

Across the headlong torrents, I have 
brought 
Thy footsteps, swift as thought ; 

And from the highest of these preci- 
pices, 

The Kingdoms of the world thine eyes 
behold, 
Like a great map unrolled. 

From far-off Lebanon, with cedars 

crested. 
To where the waters of the Asphalt 
Lake 
On its white pebbles break. 
And the vast desert, silent, sand-in- 
vested, 
These kingdoms all are mine, and thine 
shall be, 
If thou wilt worship me ! 
Christus. Get thee behind me, 
Satan ! thou shalt worship 
The Lord thy God; Him only shalt 
thou serve ! 
Angels Mmistrant. The sun goes 
down ; the evening shadows 
lengthen, 
The fever and the struggle of the day 

^ Abate and pass away ; 
Thine Angels Ministrant, we come to 

strengthen 
And comfort thee, and crown thee with 
the palm, 
The silence and the calm. 



in. 

THE MARRIAGE IN CANA. 

The Musicians. Rise up, my love, 

my fair one. 
Rise up, and come away. 
For lo ! the winter is past, 
The rain is over and gone. 
The flowers appear on the earth, 
The time of the singing of birds is come, 
And the voice of the turtle is heard in 

our land. 
The Bridegroom. Sweetly the min- 
strels sing the Song of Songs ! 
My heart runs forward with it, and I say : 
O set me as a seal upon thine heart. 
And set me as a seal upon thine arm ; 
For love is strong as life, and strong as 

death. 
And cruel as the grave is jealousy ! 
The Musicians. I sleep, but my 

heart awake th ; 
'T is the voice of my iDeloved 
Who knocketh, saying : Open to me, 
My sister, my love, my dove, 
For my head is filled with dew. 
My locks with the drops of the night ! 
The Bride. Ah yes, I sleep, and yet 

my heart awaketh. 
It is the voice of my beloved who 

knocks. 
The Bridegroom. O beautiful as 

Rebecca at the fountain, 
O beautiful as Ruth among the sheaves ! 
O fairest among women ! O undefiled ! 
Thou art all fair, my love, there 's no 

spot in thee ! 
The Musicians. My beloved is white 

and ruddy. 
The chiefest among ten thousand ; 
His locks are black as a raven. 
His eyes are the eyes of doves, 
Of doves by the rivers of water, 
His lips are like unto lilies, 
Dropping sweet-smelling myrrh. 
A rchitriclinus. Who is that youth, 

with the dark azure eyes. 
And hair, in color like unto the wine. 
Parted upon his forehead, and behind 
Falling in flowing locks? 

Paranymphus. The Nazarene 

Who preacheth to the poor in field and 

village 
The coming of God's Kingdom. 



i8 



THE DIVIXE TRAGEDY. 



Architriclimts. How serene 

His aspect is ! manly yet womanly. 
Paranyjnphtis. Most beautiful among 
the sons of men ! 
Oft known to weep, but never known 
to laugh. 
Architridintis. And tell me, she 
with eyes of olive tint, 
And skin as fair as wheat, and pale 

brown hair. 
The woman at his side? 

Paranymphits. His mother, Mary. 
ArchitricUniis. And the tall figure 
standing close behind them, 
Clad all in white, with face and beard 

like ashes. 
As if he were Elias, the White Wit- 
ness, 
Come from his cave on Carrael to fore- 
tell 
The end of all things? 

Paranym pirns. That is Manahem 
The Essenian, he who dwells among 

the palms 
Near the Dead Saa. 
Architridimis. He who foretold 
to Herod 
He should one day be King ? 
P aranympJuis . The same. 
Architriclinus. Then why 

Doth he come here to sadden with his 

presence 
Our marriage feast, belonging to a 

sect 
Haters of women, and that taste not 
wine ? 
The Musicians. My undefiled is but 
one. 
The only one of her mother, 
The choice of her that bare her ; 
The daughters saw her and blessed 

her ; 
The queens and the concubines praised 

her. 
Saying : Lo I who is this 
That looketh forth as the morning ? 
Manahem {aside). The Ruler of the 
Feast is gazing at me, 
As if he asked, why is that old man 

here 
Among the revellers ? And thou, the 

Anointed ! 
Why art thou here ? I see as in a 
vision 



A figure clothed in purple, crowned 

with thorns ; 
I see a cross uplifted in the darkness. 
And hear a cry of agony, that shall echo 
Forever and forever through the world ! 
A rchitridinus. Give us more wine. 

These goblets are all empty. 
Mary {.to Christus). They have no 

wine ! 
Christus. O woman, what have I 
To do with thee? Mine hour is not 

yet come. 
Maty {to the servants). Whatever 

he shall say to you, that do. 
Christtis. Fill up these pots with 

water. 
The Musicians. Come, my beloved. 
Let us go forth into the field. 
Let us lodge in the villages ; 
Let us get up early to the vineyards. 
Let us see if the vine flourish. 
Whether the tender grape appear, 
And the pomegranates bud forth. 

Christus. Draw out now, 

And bear unto the Ruler of the Feast. 

Alanahem {aside). O thou, brought 

up among the Essenians, 
Nurtured in abstinence, taste not the 

wine ! 
It is the poison of dragons from the 

vineyards 
Of Sodom, and the taste of death is in it. 
A rchitridinus {to the Bridegroom). 

All men set forth good wine at 

the beginning. 
And when men have well drunk, that 

which is worse : 
But thou hast kept the good wine until 

now. 
Manahem {aside). The things that 

have been and shall be no more, 
The things that are, and that hereafter 

shall be, 
The things that might have been, and 

yet were not. 
The fading twilight of great joys de- 
parted. 
The daybreak of great truths as yet un- 

risen. 
The intuition and the exp)ectation 
Of something, which, when come, is 

not the same, 
But only like its forecast in men's 

dreams. 



THE FIRST PASSOVER, 



19 



The longing, the delay, and the delight, 
Sweeter for the delay ; youth, hope, 

love, death. 
And disappointment which is also death. 
All these make up the sum of human 

life ; 
A dream within a dream, a wind at 

night 
Howling across the desert in despair. 
Seeking for something lost, it cannot 

find. 
Fate or foreseeing, or whatever name 
Men call it, matters not ; what is to be 
Hath been fore-written in the thought 

divine 
From the beginning. None can hide 

from it, 
But it will find him out ; nor run from 

it, 
But it o'ertaketh him ! The Lord hath 

said it. 
The Bridegroom, {to the Bride, on 

the balcony). When Abraham 

went with Sarah into Egypt, 
The land was all illumined with her 

beauty ; 
But thou dost make the very night it- 
self 
Brighter than day ! Behold, in glad 

procession, 
Crowding the threshold of the sky 

above us. 
The stars come forth to meet thee with 

their lamps ; 
And the soft winds, the ambassadors 

of flowers. 
From neighboring gardens and from 

fields unseen, 
Come laden with odors unto thee, my 

Queen ! 
The Musicians. Awake, O north- 
wind, 
And come, thou wind of the South, 
Blow, blow upon my garden, 
That the spices thereof may flow out. 

IV. 

IN THE CORNFIELDS. 

Philip. Onward through leagues of 
sun-illumined corn. 
As if through parted seas, the pathway 
runs, 



And crowned with su/ishine as the 

Prince of Peace 
Walks the beloved Master, leading us, 
As Moses led our fathers in old times 
Out of the land of bondage ! We have 

found 
Him of whom Moses and the Prophets 

wrote, 
Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Joseph. 
Nathanael. Can any good come out 

of Nazareth ? 
Can this be the Messiah ? 
Philip, Come and see. 

Nathanael. The summer sun grows 

hot ; I am anhungered. 
How cheerily the Sabbath-breaking 

quail 
Pipes in the corn, and bids us to his 

Feast 
Of Wheat Sheaves ! How the bearded, 

ripening ears 
Toss in the roo^ess tesnple of the air; 
As if ihe unseen nand of some Hign- 

Ptiest 
Waved them before Mount Tabor as 

an altar I 
It were no harm, if we should pluck and 

eat. 
Philip. How wonderful it is to walk 

abroad 
With the Good Master ! Since the 

miracle 
He wrought at Cana, at the marriage 

feast, 
His fame hath gone abroad through 

all the land, 
And when we come to Nazareth, thou 

shalt see 
How his own people will receive their 

Prophet, 
And hail him as Messiah ! See, he 

turns 
And looks at thee. 

Christus. Behold an Israelite 

In whom there is no guile. 
Nathanael. Whence 

knowest thou me ? 
Christus. Before that Philip called 

thee, when thou wast 
Under the fig-tree, I beheld thee. 

Nathanael. Rabbi ! 

Thou art the Son of God, thou art the 

King 
Of Israel 1 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 



Christus. Because I said I saw thee 

Under the fig-tree, before Philip called 
thee, 

Believest thou ? Thou shalt see great- 
er things. 

Hereafter thou shalt see the heavens 
unclosed, 

And angels of God ascending and 
descending 

Upon the Son of Man ! 
Pharisees {passing). Hail, Rabbi ! 
Chrishis. Hail ! 

PJiarisees. Behold how thy disciples 
do a thing 

Which is not lawful on the Sabbath- 
day, 

And thou forbiddest them not ! 

Christus. Have ye not read 

What David did when he anhungered 
was, 

And all they that were with hini? 
How he entered 

Into the house of God, and ate the 
shewbread, 

Which was not lawful saving for the 
priests ? 

Have ye not read, how on the Sabbath- 
days 

The priests profane the Sabbath in the 
Temple, 

And yet are blameless ? But I say to you, 

One in this place is greater than the 
Temple ! 

And had ye known the meaning of the 
words, 

I will have mercy and not sacrifice. 

The guiltless ve would not condemn. 
The Sabbath 

Was made for man, and not man for 
the Sabbath. 

(Passes on iviih the disciples. ) 

Pharisees. This is, alas ! some poor 
demoniac 
Wandering about the fields, and utter- 

His unintelligible blasphemies 
Among the common people, who re- 
ceive 
As prophecies the words they compre- 
hend not ! 
Deluded folk ! The incomprehensible 
Alone excites their wouder. There is 
none 



So visionary, or so void of sense, 

But he will find a crowd to follow bun 1 



NAZARETH. 

Christus {reading in the Syna- 
gogue). The Spirit of the Lord 
God is upon me. 

He hath anointed me to preach good 
tidings 

Unto the poor ; to heal the broken- 
hearted ; 

To comfort those that mourn, and to 
throw open 

The prison doors of captives, and pro- 
claim 

The Year Acceptable of the Lord, our 
God! 

{He closes the hook and sits down.) 

A PJiarisee. Who is this youth ? He 
hath taken the Teacher's seat ! 

Will he instruct the Elders ? 
A Priest. Fifty years 

Have I been Priest here in the Syna- 
gogue, 

And never have I seen so young a man 

Sit in the Teacher's seat ! 
Christus. Behold, to-day 

This scripture is fulfilled. One is ap- 
pointed 

And hath been sent to them that 
mourn in Zion, 

To give them beauty for ashes, and the 
oil 

Of joy for mourning ! They shall 
build again 

The old waste-places ; and again raise 
up 

The former desolations, and repair 

The cities that are wasted I As a 
bridegroom 

Decketh himself with ornaments, as a 
bride 

Adorneth herself with jewels, so the 
Lord 

Hath clothed me with the robe of 
righteousness. 
A Priest. He speaks the Prophet's 
words ; but with an air 

As if himself had been foreshadowed 
in them ! 



THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



Christus. For Zion's sake I will not 

hold my peace, 
And for Jerusalem's sake I will not 

rest 
Until its righteousness be as a bright- 
ness, 
And its salvation as a lamp that burn- 

eth ! 
Thou shalt be called no longer the 

Forsaken, 
Nor any more thy land, the Desolate. 
The Lord hath sworn, by his right 

hand hath»sworn, 
And by his arm of strength : I will no 

more 
Give to thine enemies thy corn as 

meat ; 
The sons of strangers shall not drink 

thy wine. 
Go through, go through the gates ! 

Prepare a way 
Unto the people ! Gather out the 

stones ! 
Lift up a standard for the people ! 

A Priest. Ah ! 

These are seditious words ! 

Christus. And they shall call them 
The holy people ; the redeemed of 

God! 
And thou, Jerusalem, shalt be called 

Sought out, 
A city not forsaken ! 

A Phari ee Is not this 

The carpenter Joseph's son ? Is not 

his mother 
Called Mary? and his brethren and his 

sisters 
Are they not with us? Doth he make 

himself 
To be a Prophet? 

Christus. No man is a Prophet 

In his own country, and among his kin. 
In his own house no Prophet is accept- 
ed. 
[ say to you, in the land of Israel 
VVere many widows in Elijah's day, 
When for three years and more the 

heavens were shut, 
A.nd a great famine was throughout the 

land ; 
But unto no one was Elijah sent 
Save to Sarepta, to a city of Sidoa 
And to a woman there that was a wid- 
ow. 



And many lepers were there in the land 

Of Israel, in the time of Eliseus 

The Prophet, and yet none of them 

was cleansed, 
Save Naaman the Syrian ! 

A Priest. Say no more ! 

Thou comest here into our Synagogue 
And speakest to the Elders and the 

Priests, 
As if the very mantle of Elijah 
Had fallen upon thee ! Art thou not 

ashamed ? 
A Pharisee. We want no Prophets 

here ! Let him be driven 
From Synagogue and city ! Let hirn 

go 
And prophesy to the Samaritans ! 
An Elder. The world is changed. 

We Elders are as nothing ! 
We are but yesterdays, that have no 

part 
Or portion in to-day ! Dry leaves that 

rustle, 
That make a little sound, and then are 

dust ! 
A Pharisee. A carpenter's appren- 
tice ! a mechanic, 
Whom we have seen at work here in 

the town 
Day after day : a stripling without 

learning. 
Shall he pretend to unfold the Word of 

God 
To men grown old in study of the Law ^ 

(Christus is thrust out.) 

VI. 

THE SEA OF GALILEE. 

Peter and Andrew, mending 
their nets. 

Peter. Never was such a marvellous 
draught of fishes 

Heard of in Galilee ! The market- 
places 

Both of Bethsaida and Capernaum 

Are full of them ! Yet we had toiled 
all night 

And taken nothing, when the Master 
said : 

Launch out into the deep, and cast your 
nets ; 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



And doing this, we caught such multi- 
tudes 
Our nets Hke spiders' webs were snapped 

asunder. 
And with the draught we filled two 

ships so full 
That they began to sink. Then I knelt 

down 
Amazed, and said : O Lord, depart 

from me, 
I am a sinful man. And he made an- 
swer : 
Simon, fear not ; henceforth thou shalt 

catch men ! 
What was the meaning of those words ? 
Andrew. I know not. 

But here is Philip, come from Naza- 
reth. 
He hath been with the Master. Tell 

us, Philip, 
What tidings dost thou bring ? 

Philip. Most wonderful ! 

As we drew near to Nain, out of the 

gate 
Upon a bier was carried the dead body 
Of a young man, his mother's only son, 
And she a widow, who with lamentation 
Bewailed her loss, and the much people 

with her ; 
And when the Master saw her he was 

filled 
With pity ; and he said to her : Weep 

not ! 
And came and touched the bier, and 

they that bare it 
Stood still ; and then he said : Young 

man, arise ! 
And he that had been dead sat up, and 

soon 
Began to speak ; and he delivered him 
Unto his mother. And there came a 

fear 
On all the people, and they glorified 
The Lord, and said, rejoicing : A 

great Prophet 
Is risen up among us ! and the Lord 
Hath visited his people ! 

Peter. A great Prophet ? 

Ay, greater than a Prophet : greater 

even 
Than John the Baptist ! 

Philip Vet the Nazarenes 

Rejected him. 
Peter. The Nazarenes are dogs ! 



As natural brute beasts, they growl at 

things 
They do not understand; and they 

shall perish, 
Utterly perish in their own corruption. 
The Nazarenes are dogs ! 

Philip. They drave him forth 

Out of their Synagogue, out of their 

city. 
And would have cast him down a pre- 
cipice. 
But, passing through the midst of 

them, he vanished 
Out of their hands. 

Peter. Wells are they without water. 
Clouds carried with a tempest, unto 

whom 
The mist of darkness is reserved for- 
ever ! 
Philip. Behold he cometh. There is 

one man with him 
I am amazed to see ! 
A ftdrew. What man is that ? 

Philip. Judas Iscariot ; he that 

cometh last. 
Girt with a leathern apron. No one 

knoweth 
His history ; but the rumor of him is 
He had an unclean spirit in his youth. 
It hath not left him yet. 

Christus {passi7ig). Come unto me, 
All ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
And I will give you rest ! Come unto 

me. 
And take my yoke upon you and learn 

of me. 
For I am meek, and I am lowly in 

heart, 
And ye shall all find rest unto your 

souls ! 
Philip. O, there is something in that 

voice that reaches 
The innermost recesses of my spirit ! 
I feel that it might say unto the blind : 
Receive your sight ! and straightway 

they would see ! 
I feel that it might say unto the dead. 
Arise ! and they would hear it and 

obey ! 
Behold he beckons to us ! 

Christus {to Peter and A ndrew). Fol- 
low me I 
Peter. Master, I will leave all and 

follow thee. 



THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



23 



VII. 
THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA. 

A Gadarene. He hath escaped, 

hath plucked his chains asunder, 
And broken his fetters ; always night 

and day 
Is in the mountains here, and in the 

tombs, 
Crying aloud, and cutting himself with 

stones. 
Exceeding fierce, so that no man can 

tame him ! 
The Demoniac {from above, unseen)^ 

O Aschmedai ! O Aschmedai, 

have pity ! 
A Gadarene. Listen ! It is his 

voice ! Go warn the people 
Just landing from the lake 1 

The Demoniac. O Aschmedai ! 

Thou angel of the bottomless pit, have 

pity ! 
It was enough to hurl King Solomon, 
On whom be peace ! two hundred 

leagues away 
Into the country, and to make him 

scullion. 
In the kitchen of the King of Masch- 

kemen ! 
Why dost thou hurl me here among 

these rocks, 
And cut me with these stones ? 

A Gadarene. He raves and mutters 
He knows not what. 
* The Dem.oniac [appearing from a 

tomb among tlie rocks). The wild 

cock Tarne.£?al 
Singeth to me, and bids me to the ban- 
quet. 
Where all the Jews shall come ; for 

they have slain 
Behemoth the great ox, who daily 

cropped 
A thousand hills for food, and at a 

draught 
Drank up the river Jordan, and have 

slain 
The huge Leviathan, and stretched his 

skin 
Upon the high walls of Jerusalem, 
And made them shine from one end of 

the world 
Unto the other ; and the fowl Barjuchne, 



Whose outspread wings eclipse the sun, 
and make 

Midnight at noon o'er all the conti- 
nents ! 

And we shall drink the wine of Paradise 

From Adam's cellars. 
A Gadarene. O, thou unclean spirit ! 
T^he Dem.oniac {hurling down a 
stone). This is the wonderful 
Barjuchne's egg. 

That fell out of her nest, and broke to 
pieces. 

And swept away three hundred cedar- 
trees. 

And threescore villages ! — Rabbi Elie- 
zer, 

How thou didst sin there in that sea- 
port town. 

When thou hadst carried safe thy chest 
of silver 

Over the seven rivers for her sake ! 

I too have sinned beyond the reach of 
pardon. 

Ye hills and mountains, pray for mercy 
on me ! 

Ye stars and planets, pray for mercy on 
me ! 

Ye sun and moon, O pray for mercy on 
me 1 

(Christus arid his disciples pass.') 

A Gadarene. There is a man here 
of Decapolis, 
Who hath an unciean spirit ; so that 

none 
Can pass this way. He lives among 

the tombs 
Up there upon the cliffs, and hurls 

down stones 
On those who pass beneath. 

Christus. Come out of him, 

Thou unclean spirit ! 

The Demoniac. What have I to do 
With thee, thou Son ot God? Do 
not torment us. 
Christus. What is thy name ? 
Demoniac. Legion ; 

for we are many. 
Cain, the first murderer ; and the King 

Belshazzar, 
And Evil Merodach of Babylon, 
And Admatha, the death-cloud, prince 

of Persia ; 
And Aschmedai, the angel of the pit. 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY, 



And many other devils. We are 
Lesion. 

Send us not forth beyond Decnpolis : 

Command us not to go into the deep ! 

There is a herd of swine here in the 
pastures, 

Let us go into them, 

Christus. Come out of him, 

Thou unclean spirit ! 

A Gadare7te. See, how stupefied. 

How motionless he stands ! He cries 
no more ; 

He seems bewildered and in silence 
stares 

As one who, walking in his sleep, 
awakes 

And knows not where he is, and looks 
about him, 

And at his nakedness, and is ashamed. 
The Demoniac. Why am I here 
alone among the tombs ? 

What have they done to me, that I am 
naked ? 

Ah, woe is me ! 

Christus. Go home unto thy friends 

And tell them how great things the 
Lord hath done 

For thee, and how he had compassion 
on thee ! 
A Swineherd {running). The 
herds ! the herds ! O most un- 
lucky day ! 

They were all feeding quiet in the sun, 

When suddenly they started, and grew 
savage 

As the wild boars of Tabor, and to- 
gether 

Rushed down a precipice into the sea ! 

They are all drowned ! 

Peter. Thus righteously are punished 

The apostate Jews, that eat the flesh 
of swine, 

And broth of such abominable things ! 
Greeks of Gadara. We sacrifice a 
sow unto Demeter 

At the beginning of harvest, and another 

To Dionysus at the vintage-time. 

Therefore we prize our herds of swine, 
and count them 

Not as unclean, but as things consecrate 

To the immortal gods. O great magi- 
cian, 

Depart out of our coasts ; let us alone. 

We are afraid of thee ! 



Peter. Let us depart ; 

For they that sanctify and purify 
Themselves in gardens, eating flesh of 

swine. 
And the abomination, and the mouse, 
Shall be consumed together, saith the 

Lordl 



VHL 

TALITHA CUML 

Jairus {at the feet of Christus). O 
Master! I entreat thee ! I im- 
plore thee ! 

My daughter lieth at the point of death ; 

I pray thee come and lay thy hands 
upon her. 

And she shall live ! 

Christus. Who was it touched 

my garments ? 
Simo7i Peter. Thou seest the multi- 
tude that throng and press thee. 

And sayest thou : Who touched me ? 
'T was not 1. 
Christus. Some one hath touched 
my garments ; I perceive 

That virtue is gone out of me. 
A Woman. O Master ) 

Forgive me ! For I said within myself, 

If I so much as touch his garment's 
hem, 

I shall be whole. 

Christus Be of good comfort, 

daughter ! 

Thy faith hath made the whole. De- 
part in peace. 

A Messenger from the house. Why 
troublest thou the Master? 
Hearest thou not 

The flute-players, and the voices of the 
women 

Singing their lamentation ? She is 
dead! 
The Minstrels a7td Mourners. We 
have girded ourselves with sack- 
cloth ! 

We have covered our heads with ashes ! 

For our young men die, and oui 
maidens 

Swoon in the streets of the city ; 

And into their mother's bosom 

They pour out their souls like water ! 



THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



25 



Christus {going m). Give place. 
Why make ye this ado, and 
weep? 
She is not dead, but sleepeth. 

The Mother from within). Cruel 
death ! 
To take away from me this tender 

blossom ! 
To take away my dove, my lamb, my 
darling 1 
The JIi?tstrels a?id Mourners. He 
hath led me and brought into 
darkness, 
Like the dead of old in dark places ! 
He hath bent his bow, and hath set 

me 
Apart as a mark for his arrow ! 
He hath covered himself with a cloud, 
That our prayer should not pass 
through and reach him ! 
The Crowd. He stands beside her 
bed ! He takes her hand ! 
Listen, he speaks to her ! 

Christus {within). Maiden, arise ! 

The Crowd. See, she obeys his 

voice ! She stirs ! She lives ! 

Her mother holds her folded in her 

arms ! 
O miracle of miracles ! O marvel ! 



IX. 

THE TOWER OF MAGDALA. 

Mary Magdalene. Companionless, 

unsatisfied, forlorn, 

I sit here in this lonely tower, and look 

Upon the lake below me, and the hills 

That swoon with heat, and see as in a 

vision 
All my past life unroll itself before me. 
The princes and the merchants come 

to me, 
Mercliants of Tjnre and Princes of 

Damascus, 
And pass, and disappear, and are no 

more ; 
But leave behind their merchandise 

and jewels. 
Their perfumes, and their gold, and 

their disgust. 
I loathe them, and the very memory 

of them 



I Is unto me, as thought of food to one 
Cloyed with the luscious figs of Dal- 

manutha ! 
What if hereafter, in the long hereafter 
Of endless joy or pain, or joy in pain, 
It were my punishment to be with 

them 
Grown hideous and decrepit in their 

sins, 
And hear them say : Thou that hast 

brought us here, 
Be unto us as thou hast been of old ! 

I look upon this raiment that I wear, 
These silks, and these embroideries, 

and they seem 
Only as cerements wrapped about my 

limbs ! 
I look upon these rings thick set with 

pearls 
And emerald and amethyst and jasper, 
And they are burning coals upon my 

flesh ! 
This serpent on my wrist becomes 

alive ! 
Away, thou viper ! and away, ye gar- 
lands 
Whose odors bring the swift remera- 

brarce back 
Of the unhallowed revels in these 

chambers ! 
But yesterday, — and yet it seems to 

me 
Something remote, like a pathetic song 
Sung long ago by minstrels in the 

street, — 
But yesterday, as from this tower I 

gazed. 
Over the olive and the walnut trees 
Upon the lake and the white ships, and 

wondered 
Whither and whence they steered, and 

who was in them, 
A fisher's boat drew near the landing- 
place 
Under the oleanders, and the people 
Came up from it, and passed beneath 

the tower. 
Close under me. In front of them, as 

leader. 
Walked one of royal aspect, clothed in 

white, 
Who lifted up his eyes, and looked at 

me, 



26 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



And all at once the air seemed tilled 

and living 
With '\ mysterious power, that streamed 

from him, 
And overflowed me with an atmos- 
phere 
Of light and love. As one entranced I 

stood, 
And when I woke again, lo ! he was 

gone ; 
So that I said : Perhaps it is a dream. 
But from that very hour the seven 

demons 
That had their habitation in this body 
Which men call beautifril, departed 

from me I 

This morning, when the first gleam of 
the dawn 

Made Lebanon a glory in the air, 

And all below was darkness, I beheld 

An angel, or a spirit glorified. 

With wind-tossed garments walking on 
the lake. 

The face I could not see, but I dis- 
tinguished 

The attitude and gesture, and I knew 

'T was he that healed me. And the 
gusty wind 

Brought to mine ears a voice, which 
seemed to say : 

Be of good cheer ! 'Tis I ! Be not 
afraid ! 

And from the darkness, scarcely heard, 
the answer : 

If it be thou, bid me come unto thee 

Upon the water ! And the voice said : 
Come ! 

And then I heard a cry of fear : Lord, 
save me ! 

As of a drowning man. And then the 
voice : 

Why didst thou doubt, O thou of little 
faith ! 

At this all vanished, and the wind was 
hushed. 

And the great sun came up above the 
hills. 

And the swift-flying vapors hid them- 
selves 

In caverns among the rocks ! O, I 
must find him 

A.nd follow him, and be with him for- 
ever ! 



Thou box of alabaster, in whose walk 
The souls of flowers lie pent, the pre- 
cious balm 
And spikenard of Arabian farms, the 

spirits 
Of aromatic herbs, ethereal natures 
Nursed by the sun and dew, not all 

unworthy 
To bathe his consecrated feet, whose 

step 
Makes every threshold holy that he 

crosses ; 
Let us go forth upon our pilgrimage. 
Thou and I only ! Let us search for 

him 
Until we find him, and pour out our 

souls 
Before his feet, till all that 's left of 

us 
Shall be the broken caskets, that once 

held us ! 



THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE 
PHARISEE. 

A Giiest {at table). Are ye deceived ? 
Have any of the Rulers 

Believed on him ? or do they know in- 
deed 

This man to be the very Christ ? How- 
beit 

We know whence this man is, but 
when the Christ 

Shall come, none knoweth whence he 
is. 
Christies. Whereunto shall I liken, 
then, the men 

Of this generation? and what are they 
like? 

They are like children sitting in the 
markets. 

And calling unto one another, say- 
ing : 

We have piped unto you, and ye have 
not danced ; 

We have mourned unto you, and ye 
have not wept ! 

This sav I unto you, for John the 
Baptist 

Came neither eating bread nor drink- 
ing wine ; 



THE FIRST PASSOVER. 



27 



Ye say he hath a devil. The Son of 

Man 
Eating and drinking coraeth, and ye 

say : 
Behold a gluttonous man, and a wine- 
bibber ; 
Behold a friend of publicans and sin- 
ners ! 
A Guest {aside to Simon). Who is 
that woman yonder, gliding in 
So silently behind him? 

SijnoH. It is Mary, 

Who dwelleth in the Tower of Magdala, 
The Gicest. See, how she kneels 
there weeping, and her tears 
Fall on his feet ; and her long, golden 

hair 
Waves to and fro and wipes them dry 

again. 
And now she kisses them, and from a 

box 
Of alabaster is anointing them 
With precious ointment, filling all the 

house 
With its sweet odor ! 

Simon {aside). O, this man, for- 
sooth 
Were he indeed a Prophet, would have 

known 
Who and what manner of woman this 

may be 
That toucheth him ! would know she 
is a sinner I 
Christus. Simon, somewhat have I 

to say to thee. 
Simon, blaster, say on. 
Christus. A certain creditor. 



Had once two debtors ; and the one of 

them 
Owed him five hundred pence ; the 

other, fifty. 
They having naught to pay withal, he 

frankiy 
Forgave them both. Now tell me 

which of them 
Will love him most ? 

Simon. He, I suppose, to whom 
He most forgave. 

Christ-US. Yea, thou hast rightly 

judged. 
Seest thou this woman ? When thine 

house I entered. 
Thou gavest me no water for my feet, 
But she hath washed them with her 

tears, and wiped them 
With her own hair ! Thou gavest me 

no kiss ; 
This woman hath not ceased, since I 

came in. 
To kiss my feet ! My head with oil 

didst thou 
Anoint not ; but this woman hath 

anointed 
My feet with ointment. Hence I say 

to thee, 
Her sins, which have been many, are 

forgiven. 
For she loved much. 

The Guests. O, who, then, is 

this man 
That pardoneth also sins without atone- 
ment? 
Christus. Woman, thy faith hath 

saved thee ! Go in peace 1 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 

THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



BEFORE THE GATES OF 
MACH^RUS. 

Manahem. Welcome, O wilderness, 

and welcome, night 
And solitude, and ye swift-flying stars 
That drift with golden sands the barren 

heavens, 
Welcome once more ! The Angels of 

the Wind 
Hasten across the desert to receive me ; 
And sweeter than men's voices are to 

me 
The voices of these solitudes ; the sound 
Of unseen rivulets, and the far-off cry 
Of bitterns in the reeds of water-pools. 
And lo ! above me, like the Prophet's 

arrow 
Shot from the eastern window, high in 

air 
The clamorous cranes go singing 

through the night. 

ye mysterious pilgrims of the air, 
Would I had wings that I might follow 

you ! 

1 look forth from these mountains, and 

behold 
The omnipotent and omnipresent night. 
Mysterious as the future and the fate 
That hangs o'er all men's lives ! I see 

beneath me 
The desert stretching to the Dead Sea 

shore, 
And westward, faint and far away, the 

glimmer 
Of torches on Mount Olivet, announ- 

1 he rising of the Moon of Passover. 



Like a great cross it seems, on which 

suspended, 
With head bowed down in agony, I 

see 
A human figure ! Hide, O merciful 

heaven, 
The awful apparition from my sight ! 

And thou, Machserus, lifting high and 
black 

Thy dreadful walls against the rising 
moon. 

Haunted by demons and by apparitions, 

Lilith, and Jezerhara, and Bedargon, 

How grim thou showest in the uncer- 
tain light, 

A palace and a prison, where King 
Herod 

Feasts with Herodias, while the Bap- 
tist John 

Fasts, and consumes his unavailing life ! 

And in thy court-yard grows the un- 
tithed rue, 

Huge as the olives of Gethsemane, 

And ancient as the terebinth of Hebron, 

Coeval with the world. Would that its 
leaves 

Medicinal could purge thee of the de- 
mons. 

That now possess thee, and the cun- 
ning fox 

That burrows in thy walls, contriving 
mischief! 
{Music is heard from within.) 

Angels of God ! Sandalphon, thou 
that weavest 

The prayers of men into immortal gar- 
lands, 

And thou, Metatron, who dost gather 
up 



32 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Their songs, and bear them to the 

gates of heaven, 
Now gather up together in your hands 
The prayers that fill this prison, and 

the songs ^ 

That echo from the ceiling of this 

palace, 
And lay them side by side before God's 

feet! 

i^He enters the castle.) 



II. 

HEROD'S BANQUET-HALL. 

Manahem. Thou hast sent for me, 

O King, and I am here. 
Herod. Who art thou ? 
Manahem. Manahem, 

the Essenian. 
Herod. I recognize thy features, but 
what mean 
These torn and faded garments? On 

thy road 
Have demons crowded thee, and rubbed 

against thee, 
And given thee weary knees? A cup 
of wine ! 
Maftahem. The Essenians drink no 

wine. 
Herod. What wilt thou, then ? 

Manahem. Nothing. 
Herod. Not even a cup of water? 
ManaJiem. Nothing. 

Why hast thou sent for me? 

Herod. Dost thou remember 

One day when I, a school-boy in the 

streets 
Of the great city, met thee on my 

way 
To school, and thou didst say to me : 

Hereafter 
Thou shalt be King? 

Manahem. Yea, I remember it. 

Herod. Thinking thou didst not 
know me, I replied : 
I am of humble birth ; whereat, thou, 

smiling, 
Didst smite me with thy hand, and 

saidst again : 
Thou shalt be King; and let the 
friendly blows 



That Manahem hath given thee on this 

day 
Remind thee of the fickleness of for- 
tune. 
Manahem. What more ? 
Herod. No more. 

Majuzhem. Yea, for I said to thee : 
It shall be well with thee if thou love 

justice 
And clemency towards thy fellow-men. 
Hast thou done this, O King? 
Herod. Go, ask my people. 

MafiaJiem. And then, foreseeing all 
thy life, I added : 
But these thou wilt forget ; and at th« 

end 
Of life the Lord will punish thee. 

Herod. The end ! 

When will that come ? Forthislsent 

to thee. 
How long shall I still reign? Thou 

dost not answer ! 
Speak ! shall I reign ten years? 

Manahem. Thou shalt reign twenty, 

Nay, thirty years. I cannot name the 

end. 

Herod. Thirty ? I thank thee, good 

Essenian ! 

This is my birthday, and a happier one 

Was never mine. We hold a banquet 

here. 

See, yonder are Herodias and her 

daughter. 

Manahem {aside;. 'T is said that 

devils sometimes take the shape 

Of ministering angels, clothed with 

air, 
That they may be inhabitants of earth, 
And lead man to destruction. Such 
are these. 
Herod. Knowest thou John the 

Baptist ? 
Manahem. Yea, I know him ; 
Who knows him not ? 
Herod. Know, then, 

this John the Baptist 
Said that it was not lawful I should 

marry 
My brother Philip's wife, and John the 

Baptist 
Is here in prison. In my father's time 
Matthias Margaloth was put to death 
For tearing the golden eagle from its 
station 



THE SECOND PASSOVER, 



33 



Above the Temple Gate, — a slighter 

crime 
Than John is guilty of. These things 

are warnings 
To intermeddlers not to play with 

eagles, 
Living or dead. I think the Essenians 
Are wiser, or more wary, are they 

not? 
Manahem. The Essenians do not 

marry. 
Herod. Thou hast given 

My words a meaning foreign to my 

thought. 
Manahem. Let me go hence, O 

King ! 
Herod. Stay yet awhile. 

And see the daughter of Herodias 

dance. 
Cleopatra of Jerusalem, my mother, 
In her best days, was not more beau- 
tiful. 

{Music. The Daughter of Hero- 
dias dances.) 

Herod. O, what was Miriam dan- 
cing with her timbrel, 
Compared to this one ? 
Manahem {aside). O thou Angel of 
Death, 
Dancing at funerals among the women. 
When men bear out the dead ! The 

air is hot 
And stifles me ! O for a breath of air ! 
Bid me depart, O King ! 

Herod. Not yet. Come hither, 

Salome, thou enchantress ! Ask of me 
Whate'er thou wilt ; and even unto the 

half _ 
Of all my kingdom, I will give it thee, 
As the Lord liveth ! 

Daughter of Herodias {kneeling) 
Give me here the head 
Of John the Baptist on this silver 
charger ! 
Herod. Not that, dear child ! I 
dare not ; for the people 
Regard John as a prophet. 
Daughter of Herodias. Thou hast 

sworn it. 
Herod. For mine oath's sake, then. 
_ Send unto the prison ; 
Let him die quickly. O accursed oath ! 
Ma?iahem. Bid me depart, O King ! 
3 



Herod. Good Manahem 

Give me thy hand. Ilove the Esseni- 
ans. 

He 's gone and hears me not ! The 
guests are dumb, 

Awaiting the pale face, the silent wit- 
ness. 

The lamps flare ; and the curtains o/ 
the doorways 

Wave to and fro as if a ghost were 
passing ! 

Strengthen my heart, red wine of Asca- 
lon! 

IIL ' 

UNDER THE WALLS OF 
MACH^RUS. 

Manahem {rushing out). Away from 
this Palace of sin ! 
The demons, the terrible powers 
Of the air, that haunt its tow^ers 
And hide in its water-spouts, 
Deafen me wdth the din 
Of their laughter and their shouts 
For the crimes that are done within ! 

Sink back into the earth, 

Or vanish into the air. 

Thou castle of despair ! 

Let it all be but a dream 

Of the things of monstrous birth, 

Of the things that only seem ! 

White Angel of the Moon, 

Onafiel ! be my guide 

Out of this hateful place 

Of sm and death, nor hide 

In yon black cloud too soon 

Thy pale and tranquil face ! 

{_A trumpet is blown from, the walls.) 

Hark ! hark ! It is the breath 
Of the trump of doom and death, 
From the battlements overhead 
Like a burden of sorrow cast 
On the midnight and the blast, 
A wailing for the dead. 
That the gusts drop and uplift ! 
O Herod, thy vengeance is swift I 
O Herodias, thou hast been 
The demon, the evil thing. 
That in place of Esther the Queen, 
In place of the lawful bride. 



34 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Hast lain at night by the side 
Of Ahasuerus the king .' 

{TJie tru?npet again.') 

The Prophet of God is dead ! 

At a drunken monarch's call, 

At a dancing-woman's beck. 

They have severed that stubborn neck, 

And into the banquet-hall 

Are bearing the ghastly head ! 

(^ body is ihr(rjLm frojfi tJi€ tower. ) 

A torch of lurid red 

Lights the window with its glow ; 

And a white mass as of snow 

Is hurled into the abyss 

Of the black precipice, 

That yawns for it below I 

O hand of the Most High, 

O hand of Adonai ! 

Bur.' it, hide it away 

From the birds and beasts of prey. 

And the eyes of the homicide, 

More pitiless than they. 

As thou didst bun,' of yore 

The body of him that died 

On the mountain of Peor ! 

Even now I behold a sigp, 

A threatening of wTath di\-ine, 

A watery, wandering star, 

Through whose streaming hair, and the 
white 

Unfolding garments of light, 

That trail behind it afar. 

The constellations shine ! 

And the whiteness and brightness ap- 
pear 

Like the Angel bearing the Seer 

By the hair of his hea(£ in the might 

And rush of his vehement flight. 

And I listen until I hear 

From fathomless depths of the sky 

The voice of his prophecy 

Sounding louder and more near ! 

Malediction I malediction ! 
May the lightnings of heaven fall 
On palace and prison wall. 
And their desolation be 
As the day of fear and aflfliction. 
As the day of anguish and ire. 
With the burning and fuel of fire, 
In the Valley of the Sea ! 



IV 



NICODEMUS AT NIGHT. 

Nicodemiis. The streets are silent 

The dark houses seem 
Like sepulchres, in which the sleepers 

lie 
Wrapped in their shrouds, and for the 

moment dead. 
The lamps are all extinguished ; only 

one 
Bums steadily, and from the door its 

light 
Lies like a shining gate across the 

street 
He waits for me. Ah, should this be 

at last 
The long-expected Christ ! I see him 

there 
Sitting alone, deep-burifed in his 

thought. 
As if the weight of all the world were 

resting 
Upon him. and thus bowed him down, 

O Rabbi, 
We know thou art a Teacher come from 

God, 
For no man can perform the miracles 
Thou dost perform, except the Lord be 

with him. 
Thou art a Prophet sent here to pro- 
claim 
The Kingdom of the Lord. Behold in 

me 
A Ruler of the Jews, who long have 

waited 
The coming of that kingdom. Tell me 

of it 
Christ 14S. Verily, verily I say unto 

thee. 
Except a man be bom again, he cannot 
Behold the Kingdom ofGod ! 

Nicodemus. Be bom again ? 

How can a man be bom when he is 

old? 
Say, can he enter for a second time 
Into his mother's womb, and so be 

bora ? 
Ckrisius. Verily I say unto thee, 

except 
A man be bora of water and the spirit. 
He cannot enter into the Kingdom of 

God. 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



35 



For that which of the flesh is born, is 
flesh ; 

And that which of the spirit is born, is 
spirit. 
Nicodemjis. We Israelites from the 
Primeval Man 

Adam Ahelion derive our bodies ; 

Our souls are breathings of the Holy 
Ghost. 

No more than this we know, or need 
to know. 
Christus. Then marvel not, that I 
said unto thee^ 

Ye must be born again. 

Nicodemtis. The mystery 

Of birth and death we cannot compre- 
hend. 
ChrisUis. The wind bloweth where 
it listeth, and we hear 

The sound thereof, but know not 
whence it cometh, 

Nor whither it goeth. So is every one 

Born of the spirit ! 
Nicodermis {aside). How can these 
things be? 

He seems to speak of some vague realm 
of shadows, 

Some unsubstantial kingdom of the air ! 

It is not this the Jews are waiting 
for, 

Nor can this be the Christ, the Son of 
David, 

Who shall deliver us ! 

Christus. Art thou a master 

Of Israel, and knowest not these 
things? 

We speak that we do know, and testify 

That we have seen, and ye will not re- 
ceive 

Our witness. If I tell you earthly 
things. 

And ye believe not, how shall ye be- 
lieve, 

If I should tell you of things heavenly ? 

And no man hath ascended up to heav- 
en, 

But he alone that first came down from 
heaven. 

Even the Son of Man which is in 
lieaven ! 
Nicodeinus {aside). This is a 
dreamer of dreams : a.visionary. 

Whose brain is overtasked, until he 
deems 



The unseen world to be a thing sub- 
stantial, 

And this we live in an unreal vision ! 

And yet his presence fascinates and 
fills me 

With wonder, and I feel myself exalted 

Into a higher region, and become 

Myself in part a dreamer of his dreams 

A seer of his visions ! 

Christus. And as Moses 

Uplifted the serpent in the wilderness, 

So must the Son of Man be lifted 
up ; 

That whosoever shall believe in him 

Shall perish not, but have eternal hfe. 

He that believes in him is not con- 
demned ; 

He that believes not, is condemned 
already. 
Nicode7nus {aside). He speaketh 

like a Prophet of the Lord ! 
Christus. This is the condemnation ; 
that the' light 

Is come into the world, and men loved 
darkness 

Rather than light, because their deeds 
are evil ! 
Nicodemzis {aside). Of me he speak- 
eth ! He reproveth me 

Because I come by night to question 
him ! 
Christus. For every one that doeth 
evil deeds 

Hateth the light, nor cometh to the 
light. 

Lest he should be reproved. 

Nicodemu^ {aside). Alas, how truly 

He readeth what is passing in my 
heart ! 
Christus. But he that doeth truth 
comes to the light, 

So that his deeds may be made mani- 
fest. 

That they are wrought in God. 
Nicodemus. Alas ! alas ! 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Bartimeus. Be not impatient, Chil' 
ion ; it is pleasant 
To sit here in the shadow of the walls 



36 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 



Under the palms, and hear the hum of 

bees, 
And rumor of voices passing to and fro. 
And drowsy bells of caravans on their 

way 
To Sidon or Damascus. This is still 
The City of Palms, and yet the walls 

thou seest 
Are not the old walls, not the walls 

where Rahab 
Hid the two spies, and let them down 

by cords 
Out of the window, when the gates 

were shut, 
And it .was dark. Those walls were 

overthrown 
When Joshua's army shouted, and the 

priests 
Blew with their seven trumpets. 

Chilion. When was that ? 

Barti7net4s. O, my sweet rose of 

Jericho, I know not. 
Hundreds of years ago. And over 

there 
Beyond the river, the great prophet 

Elijah 
Was taken by a whirlwind up to 

heaven 
In chariot of fire, with fiery horses. 
That is the plain of Moab ; and beyond 

it 
Rise the blue summits of Mount 

Abarim, 
Nebo and Pisgah and Peor, where Mo- 
ses 
Died, whom the Lord knew face to 

face, and whom 
He buried in a valley, and no man 
Knows of his sepulchre unto this day. 
Chilion. Would thou couldst see 

these places, as I see them. 
Bariifneits. I have not seen a glim- 
mer of the light 
Since thou wast bom. I never saw 

thy face, 
And yet I seem to see it ; and one day 
Perhaps shall see it ; for there is a 

Prophet 
In Galilee, the Messiah, the Son of 

David, 
Who heals the blind, if I could only 

find him. 
I hear the sound of many feet ap- 
proaching 



And voices, like the murmur of a 

crowd ! 
What seest thou ? 

Chilion. A young man clad in white 
Is coming through the gateway, and a 

crowd 
Of people follow. 

Bartimeus. Can it be the Prophet? 

neighbors, tell me who it is that 

passes ! 
One of the Crounl. Jesus of Nazareth. 
Bartimeits {crying). O Son of Da- 
vid ! 
Have mercy on me ! 
Ma7iy of the Crcivd. Peace, Blind 
Bartimeus I 
Do not disturb the Master. 

Barti7ne^is {crying ynore vehement- 
ly). Son of David, 
Have mercy on me ! 

One of the Crowd. See, the Master 
stops. 
Be of good comfort ; rise, he calleth 
thee ! 
Bartimeus {casting aivay his cloak)"* 
Chilion ! good neighbors ! lead 
me on. 
Christiis. What wilt thou 

That I should do to thee ? 

Bartime^is. Good Lord ! my sight — 
That I receive my sight ! 

Christus. Receive thy sight ! 

Thy faith hath made thee whole ! 
TJie Crowd. He sees again ! 

(Christus /J^wj^j on. The crozvd gath- 
ers round Bartimeus.) 

Bartimeus. I see again ; but sight 

bewilders me ! 
Like a remembered dream, familiar 

things 
Comeback to me. I see the tender sky 
Above me. see the trees, the city walls. 
And the old gateway, through whose 

echoing arch 

1 groped so many years ; and you, my 

neighbors ; 
But know you by your friendly voices 

only. 
How beautiful the world is ! and how 

wide ! 
O, I am miles away, if I but look ! 
Where art thou, Chilion? 
Chilion. Father. I am here- 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



37 



Bartimeus. O'let me gaze upon thy 

face, dear child ! 
For I have only seen thee with my 

hands ! 
How beautiful thou art ! I should have 

known thee ; 
Thou hast her eyes whom we shall see 

hereafter \ 
O God of Abraham ! Elion ! Adonai ! 
Who art thyself a Father, pardon me 
If for a moment I have thee postponed 
To the affections and the thoughts of 

earth. 
Thee, and the adoration that I owe 

thee, 
When by thy power alone these dark- 
ened eyes 
Have been unsealed again to see thy 

light ! 

VI. 



JACOB'S WELL. 

A Samaritan Woman. The sun is 
hot ; and the dry east-wind blow- 
ing 

Fills all the air with dust. The birds 
are silent ; 

Even the Httle fieldfares in the com 

No longer twitter ; only the grasshop- 
pers 

Sing their incessant song of sun and 
summer. 

I wonder who those strangers were I 
met 

Going into the city ? ^ Galileans 

They seemed to me in speaking, when 
they asked 

The short way to the market-place. 
Perhaps 

They are fishermen from the lake ; or 
travellers, 

Looking to find the inn. And here is 
some one 

Sitting beside the well ; another stran- 
ger ; 

A Galilean also by his looks. 

What can so many Jews be doing here 

Together in Samaria? Are they going 

Up to Jerusalem to the Passover? 

Our Passover is better here at Sychem, 

For here is Ebal ; here is Gerizim, 



The mountain where our father Abra- 
ham 
Went up to offer Isaac ; here the tomb 
Of Joseph, — for they brought his 

bones from Egypt 
And buried them in this land, and it is 
holy. 
Christus. Give me to drink. 
Samaritan Woman. How can it be 
that thou, 
Being a Jew, askest to drink of me 
Which am a woman of Samaria? 
You Jews despise us ; have no dealings 

with us ; 
Make us a by-word ; call us in derision 
The silly folk of Sychar. Sir, how is it 
Thou askest drink of me ? 

Christus. If thou hadst known 

The gift of God, and who it is that 

sayeth 
Give me to drink, thou wouldst have 

asked of him ; 
He would have given thee the living 
water. 
Samaritan Woman. Sir, thou hast 
naught to draw with, and the 
well 
Is deep ! Whence hast thou living 

water ? 
Say, art thou greater than our father 

Jacob, 
Which gave this well to us, and drank 

thereof 
Himself, and all his children, and his 
cattle ? 
Christus. Ah, whosoever drinketh of 
this water 
Shall thirst again ; but whosoever 

drinketh 
The water I shall give him shall not 

thirst 
Forevermore, for it shall be within him 
A well of living water, springing up 
Into life everlasting. 

Samaritan Woman. Every day 

I must go to and fro, in heat and cold. 
And I am weary. Give me of this 

water. 
That I may thirst not, nor come here 
to draw. 
Christus. Go call thy husband, wo- 
man, and come hither. 
Samaritan Woman. I have no hus- 
band, Sir. 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



ChrisUiS. Thou hast well said 

I have no husband. Thou hast had 
five husbands ; 

And he whom now thou hast is not thy 
husband. 
Samaritan IVojnan. Surely thou 
art a Prophet, for thou readest 

The hidden things oi life I Our fa- 
thers worshipped 

Upon this mountain Gerizim ; and ye say 

The only place in which men ought to 
w^orship 

Is at Jerusalem. 

Christus. Believe me, woman, 

The hour is coming, when ye neither 
shall 

Upon this mount, nor at Jerusalem, 

Worship the Father ; for the hour is 
coming. 

And is now- come, when the true wor- 
shippers 

Shall worship the Father in spirit and 
in truth ! 

The Fatherseekethsuch to worship him. 

God is a spirit ; and they that worship 
him 

Must worship him in spirit and in truth. 
Saviaritan IVomaji. Master, I know 
that the Messiah cometh. 

Which is called Christ ; and he will 
tell us all things. 
Christiis. I that speak unto thee am 

he ! 
The Disciples {returning). Behold, 

The Master sitting by the well, and 
talking 

With a Samaritan woman ! With a 
woman 

Of Sychar, the silly people, always 
boasting 

Of their Mount Ebal, and Mount Geri- 
zim, 

Their Everlasting Mountain, which 
they think 

Higher and holier than our Mount 
Moriah ! 

Why, once upon the Feast of the New 
Moon, 

When our great Sanhedrim of Jerusa- 
lem 

Had all its watch-fires kindled on the 
hills 

To warn the distant villages, these 
people 



I Lighted up others to mislead the Jews, 
And make a mockery of their festival ! 
See, she has left the Master; and is 

running 
Back to the city ! 

The Satnaritan Woman. O, come 
see a man 
Who hath told me all things that I 

ever did ! 
Say, is not this the Christ ? 

TJie Disciples. Lo, Master, here 
Is food, that we have brought thee 

from the city. 
We pray thee eat it. 

Christus. I have food to eat 

Ye know not of 

The Disciples {to each other). Hath 
any man been here, 
And brought him aught to eat, while 
we were gone ? 
Christus. The food I speak of is to 
^ do the will 
Of him that sent me, and to finish his 

work. 
Do ye not say, Lo ! there are yet four 

months 
And cometh harvest ? I say unto you, 
Lift up your eyes, and look upon the 

fields. 
For they are white already unto har- 
vest ! 



VII. 

THE COASTS OF C^SAREA 
PHILIPPL 

Christus {going up the mountain)* 

Who do the people say I am ? 
John. Some say 

That thou art John the Baptist ; some, 

Elias ; 
And others Jeremiah. 

James. Or that one 

Of the old Prophets is arisen again. 
Christus. But who say ye I am? 
Peter. Thou art the Christ ! 

Thou art the Son of God ! 

Christus. Blessed art thou, 

Simon Barjona ! Flesh and blood hath 

not 
Revealed it unto thee, but even my 
Father, 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



39 



Which is in Heaven. And I say unto 

thee 
That thou art Peter ; and upon this rock 
I build my Church, and all the gates of 

Hell 
Shall not prevail against it. But take 

heed 
Ye tell to no man that I am the Christ. 
For I must go up to Jerusalem, 
And suffer many things, and be rejected 
Of the Chief Priests, and of the Scribes 

and Elders, 
And must be crucified, and the third 

day 
Shall rise again ! 

Peter. Be it far from thee, Lord ! 
This shall not be ! 

ChristMs. Get thee behind 

me, Satan ! 
Thou savorest not the things that be of 

God, 
But those that be of men ! If any will 
Come after me, let him deny himself, 
And daily take his cross, and follow 

me. 
For whosoever will save his life shall 

lose it. 
And whosoever will lose his life shall 

findit. 
For wherein shall a man be profited 
If he shall gain the whole world, and 

shall lose 
Himself or be a castaway? 

James {after a long pause). Why 

doth 
The Master lead us up into this moun- 
tain? 
Peter. He goeth up to pray. 
Joh7t. See, where he standeth 

Above us on the summit of the hill ! 
His face shines as the sun ! and all his 

raiment 
Exceeding white as snow, so as no 

fuller 
On earth can white them ! He is not 

alone ; 
There are two with him there ; two 

men of eld, 
Their white beards blowing on the 

mountain air. 
Are talking with him. 

ya^nes. I am sore afraid ! 

Peter. Who and whence are they ? 
7ohn. Moses and Elias ! 



Peter. O Master ! it is good for us to 
be here ! 
If thou wilt, let us make three taberna- 
cles ; 
For thee one, and for Moses and Elias ! 
John. Behold a bright cloud sailing 
in the sun ! 
It overshadows us. A golden mist 
Now hides them from us, and envelops 

us 
And all the mountain in a luminous 

shadow ! 
I see no more. The nearest rocks are 
hidden. 
Voice froin the cloud. Lo ! this is 

my beloved Son ! Hear him ! 
Peter. It is the voice of God. He 
speaketh to us, 
As from the burning iDush he spake to 
Moses ! 
John. The cloud- wreaths roll away. 
The veil is lifted ; 
We see again. Behold ! he is alone. 
It was a vision that our eyes beheld. 
And it hath vanished into the un- 
seen. 
Christus {coining- down from, the 
mountain). I charge ye, tell the 
vision unto no one, 
Till the Son of Man be risen from the 
dead ! 
Peter {aside). Again he speaks of it ! 
What can it mean. 
This rising from the dead? 

James. Why say the Scribes 

Elias must first come? 

Christtis. He cometh first, 

Restoring all things. But I say to 

you, 
That this Elias is already come. 
They knew him not, but have done 

unto him 
Whate'er they listed, as is written of 
him. 
Peter {aside). It is of John the Bap- 
tist he is speaking. 
James. As we descend, see, at the 
mountain's foot, 
A crowd of people; coming, going, 

thronging 
Round the disciples, that we left be- 
hind us. 
Seeming impatient that we stay so 
long. 



io 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Peter. It is some blind man, or some 
paralytic 
That waits the Master's coming to be 
healed. 
James. I see a boy, who struggles 
and demeans him 
As if an unclean spirit tormented him ! 
A certain Man {mnniTig /oru/ard). 
Lord ! I beseech thee, look upon 
my son. 
He is mine only child ; a lunatic, 
And sorely vexed ; for oftentimes he 

falleth 
Into the fire and oft into the water. _ 
Wherever the dumb spirit taketh him^ 
He teareth him. He gnasheth with his 

teeth, 
And pines away. I spake to thy disciples 
That they should cast him out, and 
they could not. 
Christus. O faithless generation and 
perverse ! 
How long shall I be with you, and suf- 
fer you ? 
Bring thy son hither. 

Bystanders. How the unclean spirit 
Seizes the boy, and tortures him with 

pain ! 
He falleth to the ground and wallows, 

foaming ! 
He cannot live, 

Christus. How long is it ago 

Since this came unto him ? 

TJie FatJier. Even of a child. 

O have compassion '^n us, Lord, and 

help us, 
If thou canst help us. 

Christus. If thou canst believe ! 

For unto him that verily believeth. 
All things are possible. 

The FatJier. Lord, I believe ! 

Help thou mine unbelief! 

Christies. Dumb and deaf spirit. 

Come out of him, I charge thee, and no 

more 
Enter thou into him ! 

( The boy Jitters a loud cry of pain ^ a?id 
then lies still. ) 

Bystanders. How motionless 

He lieth there. No life is left in him. 
His eyes are like a blind man*s, that see 

not. 
The boy is dead ! 



Others. Behold ! the Master stoops. 
And takes him by the hand, and lifts 

him up. 
He is not dead. 
Disciples. But one word from 

those lips, 
But one touch of that hand, and he is 

healed ! 
Ah, why could we not do it ? 

The Father. My poor child ! 

Now thou art mine again. The un- 
clean spirit 
Shall never more torment thee ! Look 

at me ! 
Speak unto me ! Say that thou know- 
est me ! 
Disciples to Christus {departing). 
Good Master, tell us, for what 
reason was it 
We could not cast him out? 

Christus. Because of your unbelief ! 



VIIL 
THE YOUNG RULER. 

Christus. Two men went up into the 
temple to pray. 
The one was a self-righteous Pharisee, 
The other a Publican. And the Phar- 
isee 
Stood and prayed thus within himself : 

O God, 
I thank thee I am not as other men, 
Extortioners, unjust, adulterers. 
Or even as this Publican. I fast 
Twice in the week, and also I ,e:ive tithes 
Of all that I possess ! The Publican, 
Standing afar off, would not lift so much 
Even as his eyes to heaven, but smote 

his breast, 
Saying : God be merciful to me a sin- 
ner ! 
I tell you that this man went to his 

house 
More justified than the other. Every 

one 
That doth exalt himself shall be abased, 
And he that humbleth himself shall be 
exalted ! 
Children among tJiejnselves). Let us 
go nearer ! He is telling stories I 
Let us go listen to them. 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



41 



A n old y^ju. Children, children ! 

What are ye doing here ? Why do ye 

crowd us ? 
It was such little vagabonds as you, 
That followed Elisha, mocking him and 

crying : 
Go up, thou bald-head ! But the bears 

— the bears 
Came out of the wood, and tare them ! 
A Mother. Speak not thus ! 

We brought them here, that he might 

lay his hands 
On them, and bless them. 

ChrisUis. Suffer little children 

To come unto me, and forbid them not ; 
Of such is the kingdom of heaven ; and 

their angels 
Look always on my Father's face. 

{Takes them in his arms and blesses 
them..) 

A Voting Ruler {rtmning). Good 
Master ! 
What good thing shall I do, that I may 

have 
Eternal life ? 

Christus. Why callest thou me good ? 
There is none good but one, and that is 

God. 
If thou wilt enter into life eternal. 
Keep the commandments. 

Young Ruler. Which of them ? 

Christus. Thou shalt not 

Commit adultery ; thou shalt not kill ; 
Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not 

bear false witness ; 
Honor thy father and thy mother ; and 

love 
Thy neighbor as thyself 

Young Rtiler. From my youth up 
All these things have I kept. What 
lack I yet ? 
jfohn. With what divine compassion 
in his eyes 
The Master looks upon this eager youth, 
As if he loved him ! 

Christus. Wouldst thou perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, 
And come, take up thy cross, and follow 

me, 
And thou shalt have thy treasure in the 
heavens. 
John. Behold, how sorrowful he 
turns away I 



Christus. Children ! how hard it is 
for them that trust 
In riches to enter into the kingdom of 

God ! 
'T is easier for a camel to go through 
A needle's eye, than for the rich to 

enter 
The kingdom of God ! 

John. Ah, who then can be saved ? 
Christus. With men this is indeed 
impossible. 
But unto God all things are possi- 
ble ! 
Peter. Behold, we have left all, and 
followed thee. 
What shall we have therefor ? 

Christus. Eternal life. 



IX. 

AT BETHANY. 

Martha busy about household affairs- 
Mary sitting at the feet of Chris- 
tus. 

Martha. She sitteth idly at the Mas- 
ter's feet, 

And troubles not herself with house- 
hold cares. 

'T is the old story. When a giiest ar- 
rives 

She gives up all to be with him ; while I 

Must be the drudge, make ready the 
guest-chamber, 

Prepare the food, set everything in or- 
der. 

And see that naught is wanting in the 
house. 

She shows her love by words, and I by 
works. 
Mary. O Master ! when thou com- 
est, it is always 

A Sabbath in the house. I cannot 
work ; 

I must sit at thy feet ; must see thee, 
hear thee ! 

I have a feeble, wayward, doubting 
heart, 

Incapable of endurance or great 
thoughts, 

Striving for something that it cannot 
reach, 



THE DIVIXE TRAGEDY. 



Baffled and disappointed, wounded, 

hungry ; 
And only when I hear thee am I happy. 
And only when I see thee am at peace! 

Stronger than I, and wiser, and far 

better 
In every manner, is my sister Martha. 
You see how well she orders everything 
To make thee welcome ; how she comes 

and goes. 
Careful and cumbered ever with much 

serving. 
While I but welcome thee with foolish 

words I 
Whene'er thou speakest to me.. I a:n 

happy ; 
When thou art silent, I am satisfied. 
Thy presence is enough. I ask no 

more. 
Only to be with thee, only to see thee, 
Sufficeth me. My heart is then at rest. 
I wonder I am worthy of so much. 
Martha. Lord, dost thou care not 

that my sister Mary 
Hath left me thus to wait on thee 

alone? 
I pray thee, bid her help rce- 

Christiis, Martha, Martha, 

Carefiil and troubled about many 

things 
Art thou, and yet one thing alone is 

needfiil I 
Thy sister Mary hath chosen that good 

part. 
Which never shall be taken away fix>m 

her! 



X- 

BORN BLIND. 

A yew. Who is this beggar blinking 
in the sun ? 
Is it not he who used to sit and beg 
By the Gate Beautifid ? 
A noiher. It is the same. 

A Third. It is not he, but like him, 
for that beggar 
Was blind from birth. It cannot be 
the same. 
Th^ Beggar. Yea, I am he. 
A Jrw. How 

have thine eyes been opened ? 



T/u Beggar. A mau that is called 
Jesus made a clay 
And put it on mine eyes, and said to 

me : 
Go to SUoam's Pool and wash th3rself. 
I went and ^-ashed, and I received my 
sight. 
A Jevj. Where is he ? 
The Beggar. I know not. 

PJiarisees. What is this crowd 

Gathered about a beggar.* What has 
happened ? 
A Je^jj. Here is a man who hath 
been blind from birth. 
And now he sees. He says a mau 

called Jesus 
Hath healed him. 
Pharisees* As God liveth, the Naza- 
rene I 
How w as this done ? 

The Beggar. Rabboni, he put clay 
Upon mine eyes ; I washed, and now 
I see. 
Pharisees. When did he this ? 
The Beggar. Rabboni, yesterday. 
Pharisees. The Sabbath-day. This 
man is not of God 
Because he keepeth not the Sabbath- 
day ! 
A Jew. How can a man that is a 
sinner do 
Such miracles ? 
Pharisees. What do<t thou say of 
him 
That hath restored thy sight ? 

The Beggar. He is a Prophet. 

A Jew. This is a wonderful story, 
but not true. 
A b^gar's fiction. He was not borr 

blind. 
And never has been blind ! 

Others. Here are his parents- 

Ask them. 

Pharisees. Is this your son ? 
The Parents. Rabboni, yea; 

We know this is our son. 

Pharisees. Was he bom blind? 

The Parents. He w^s bom blind. 
Pharisees. Then how doth he nox 

see.' 
The Parents {aside). What answe» 
shall we make ? I f we confess 
It was the Christ, we sLall be drivei 
forth 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



43 



Out of the Synagogue ! We know, 

Rabboni, 
This is our son, and that he was bora 

blind ; 
But by what means he seeth, we 

know not, 
Or who his eyes hath opened, we know 

not. 
He is of age ; ask him ; we cannot say ; 
He shall speak for himself. 

Pharisees. Give God the praise ! 
We know the man that healed thee is 

a sinner ! 
The Beggar. Whether he be a sin- 
ner, 1 know not ; 
One thing I know ; that whereas I was 

blind, 
[ now do see. 
Pharisees. How opened he thine 

eyes? 
What did he do? 
The Beggar. I have already told 

you. 
Ye did not hear; why would ye hear 

again ? 
Will ye be his disciples ? 

Pharisees. God of Moses ! 

Are we demoniacs, are we halt or blind. 
Or palsy-stricken, or lepers, or the like, 
That we should join the Synagogue of 

Satan, 
And follow jugglers ? Thou art his 

disciple, 
But we are disciples of Mose« ; and we 

know 
That God spake unto Moses ; but this 

fellow, 
We know not whence he is ! 

The Beggar. _ Why, herein is 

A marvellous thing ! Ye know not 

whence he is, 
Yet he hath opened mine eyes ! We 

know that God 
Heareth not sinners ; but if any man 
Doeth God's will, and is his worship- 
per. 
Him doth he hear. O, since the world 

began 
It was not heard that any man hath 

opened 
The eves of one that was bora blind. 

If he 
Were not of God, surely he could do 

nothing 1 



Pharisees. Thou, who wast alto- 
gether born in sins 
And in iniquities, dost thou teach us? 
Away with thee out of the holy places, 
Thou reprobate, thou beggar, thou 
blasphemer ! 

(The Beggar is cast 02it.) 
XL 

SIMON MAGUS AND HELEN 
OF TYRE. 

On the hmise-top at Endor. Night. 
A lighted lantern on a table. 

Simon. Swift are the blessed Im- 
mortals to the mortal 

That perseveres ! So doth it stand re- 
corded 

In the divine Chaldaean Oracles 

Of Zoroaster, onee Ezekiel's slave, 

Who in his native East betook himself 

To lonely meditation, and the writing 

On the dried skins of oxen the Twelve 
Books 

Of the Avestaand the Oracles ! 

Therefore I persevere ; and I have 
brought thee 

From the great city of Tyre, where 
men deride 

The things they comprehend not, to 
this plain 

Of Esdraelon, in the Hebrew tongue 

Called Armageddon, and this town of 
Endor, 

Where men believe ; where all the air 
is full 

Of marvellous traditions, and the En- 
chantress 

That summoned up the ghost of 
Samuel 

Is still remembered. Thou hast seei^ 
the land : 

Is it not fair to look on ? 
Helen. It is fair, 

Yet not so fair as Tyre. 

Simon. Is not Mount Tabor 

As beautiful as Carmel by the Sea? 
Helen. It is too silent and too soli- 
tary ; 

I miss the tumult of the streets ; the 
sounds 

Of traffic, and the going to and fro 



THE DiriXE TRAGEDY. 



Of people in gay attire, with cloaks of 
purple. 

And gold and silver jewelry ! 

StMnyH' Inventions 

Of Ahriman, the spirit of the dark. 

The Evil Spirit ! 
HeUru I r^ret the gossip 

Of friends and neighbors at the open 
door 

On summer nights. 
Simon, An idle waste of time. 

Hel-'H' The singing and the dancing, 
the delight 

Of music and of motion. Woe is me. 

To give up all these {Measures, and to 
lead 

The life we lead ! 
SiffLyn., Thou canst not raise thyself 

L'p to the level of my higher thought. 

And though possessing thee, I stiU re- 
main 

Apart from thee, and with thee, am 
alone 

In my high dreams. 
Helen, Happier was I in Tyre. 

O, I remember how the gallant ships 

Came sailing in, with ivory, gold and 
silver. 

And apes and peacocks ; and the sing- 
ing sailoTS ; 

A: ' ' ~> captains, with their silken 

S r ^ - myrrh, and cinnamon ! 

e dishonor, Helen ! 

r - -"3 

Of Tarshish ho»vi for that ! 

HeUn. And what dishonor ? 

Remember Rahab, and how she became 
The ancestress of the great Psalmist 

David; 
And wherefore should not I, Helen of 

Tyre, 
Attain hke honor ? 

Simon. Thou art Helen of Tyre, 
And hast been Helen of Troy, and hast 

been Rahab, 
The Queen of Sheba, and Semirarais, 
And Sara of seven husbands, and 

JezebeL 
And other women of the like allure- 

raents ; 
.\nd now thou art Minerva, the first 

-.-Eon, 
The Mother of Angels I 



f Helen, And the concubine 

Of Simon the Magician 1 Is it honor 
\ For one who has been all these noble 

dames, 
; To tramp about the dirty villages 
; And cities of Samaria with a juggler? 
\ A charmer of serpents? 
f Simon. He who knows himself 
Knows all things in himself. I have 
r charmed thee, 

Thou beautiful asp; yet am I no 
! magician. 

I am the Power of God, and the Beau- 
ty of God 1 
I am the Paraclete, the Comfoner ! 
i HeUn- Illusions I Thou deceiver, 
self-deceived I 
Thou dost usurp the titles of another ; 
Thou art not what thou say est. 

Sitnon. Ami not ? 

Then feel my power. 
Helen, Would I had 

ne'er left Tyre ! 

{He locks at ker, and she sinks inio a 
deef sleepy 

Simon. Go, see it in thy dreams, 

&ir unbeliever ! 
And leave me unto mine, if they be 

dreams. 
That take such shapes before me, that 

I see them ; 
These efeble and ineffable impressions 
Of the mysterious world, that come to 

me 
From the elements of Fire and Earth 

and Water, 
And the all-nourishing Ether ! It is 

written. 
Look not on Nature, for her name is 

fatal: 
Yet there are Principles, that make 

apparent 
The images of unapparent things. 
And the impression of vague charac- 
ters 
And visions most divine appear in 

ether. 
So speak the Oracles ; then wherefore 

fatal? 
I take this orange-bough, with its five 

leaves, 
Elach equidistant on the upright stem ; 
And I project them on a plane below, 



THE SECOND PASSOVER. 



45 



In the circumference of a circle drawn 

About a centre where the stem is plant- 
ed, 

And each still equidistant from the oth- 
er ; 

As if a thread of gossamer were drawn 

Down from each leaf, and fastened with 
a pin. 

Now if from these five points a line be 
traced 

To each alternate point, we shall obtain 

The Pentagram, or Solomon's Pentan- 
gle, 

A charm against all witchcraft, and a 
sign, 

Which on the banner of Antiochus 

Drove back the fierce barbarians of the 
North, 

Demons esteemed, and gave the Syrian 
King 

The sacred name of Soter, or of Savior. 

Thus Nature works mysteriously with 
man ; 

And from the Eternal One, as from a 
centre, 

All things proceed, in fire, air, earth, 
and water, 

And all are subject to one law, which 
broken 

Even in a single point, is broken in all ; 

Demons rush in, and chaos comes again. 

By this will I compel the stubborn spir- 
its. 
That guard the treasures, hid in caverns 

deep 
On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-Priest, 
The ark and holy vessels, to reveal 
Their secret unto me, and to restore 
These precious things to the Samari- 
tans. 

A mist is rising from the plain below 
me. 

And as I look, the vapors shape them- 
selves 

Into strange figures, as if unawares 

My lips had breathed the Tetragram- 
maton, 

And fi-om their graves, o'er all the bat- 
tle-fields 



Of Armageddon, the long-buried cap- 
tains 
Had started, with their thousands, and 

ten thousands. 
And rushed together to renew their 

wars. 
Powerless, and weaponless, and with- 
out a sound ! 
Wake, Helen, from thy sleep ! The air 

grows cold ; 
Let us go down. 
Helen {awaking). O would I were at 

home ! 
Simon' Thou sayest that I usurp 
another's titles. 
In youth I saw the Wise Men of the 

East, 
Magalath and Pangalath, and Saracen, 
Who followed the bright star, but home 

returned 
For fear of Herod by another way. 
O shining v,orlds above me ! in what 

deep 
Recesses of your realms of mystery 
Lies hidden now that star? and where 

are they 
That brought the gifts of frankincense 
and myrrh ! 
Helen. The Nazarene still liveth. 
Simon. We have heard 

His name in many towns, but have not 

seen him. 
He flits before us ; tarries not ; is 

gone 
When we approach, like something un- 
substantial, 
Made of the air, and fading into air. 
He is at Nazareth, he is at Nain, 
Or at the Lovely Village on the Lake, 
Or sailing on its waters. 

Helen. _ So say those 

Who do not wish to find him. 

Simon. Can this be 

The King of Israel, whom the Wise 

Men worshipped? 
Or does he fear to meet me ? It would 

seem so. 
We should soon learn which of us twain 

usurps 
The titles of the other, as thou sayest. 
(JTkey go down.) 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 

THE THIRD PASSOVER, ' 



THE THIRD PASSOVER 



THE ENTRY INTO JERUSA- 
LEM. 

The Syro-Ph<enician Woman and 
her Daughter on the house-top at 
yerusalem. 

The DaugJtter [singing). Blind Bar- 

timeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 
He hears the crowd ; — he hears a 

breath 
Say : It is Christ of Nazareth ! 
And calls, in tones of agony, 
'l7jo"oi), kKi-f\(s6v /ae / 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say : He calleth thee ! 
©apcrei, eyetpat, i^xuvet ae 1 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd : What wilt thou at my 

hands ? 
And he replies : O, give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight ! 
And Jesus answers, "YTraye • 
'H TTt'cTTi? (70V oreo-to/ce o-e / 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see. 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty voices Three, 
'Irja-oO, eAerjcjoi/ /ae / 
©apo-et, eyetpat, "YTraye / 
'H 7rto-Tt5 <jov (jidiUKi ere / 

The Mother. Thy faith hath saved 
thee ! Ah, how true that is ! 
!■ or I had faith ; and when the Master 
came 

4 



Into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, flee- 
ing 

From those who sought to slay him, I 
went forth 

And cried unto him, saying: Have 
mercy on me, 

Lord, thou Son of David ! for my 

daughter 
Is grievously tormented with a devil. 
But he passed on, and answered not a 

word. 
And his disciples said, beseeching him : 
Send her away ! She crieth after us ! 
And then the Master answered them 

and said : 

1 am not sent but unto the lost sheep 
Of the House of Israel ! Then I wor- 
shipped him, 

Saying : Lord, help me ! And he an- 
swered me, 
It is not meet to take the children's 

bread 
And cast it unto dogs ! Truth, Lord, I 

said ; 
And yet the dogs may eat the crumbs 

which fall 
From off their master's table ; and he 

turned, 
And answered m-e ; and said to me : O 

woman, 
Great is thy faith ; then be it unto thee, 
Even as thou wilt. And from that very 

hour 
Thou wast made whole, my darling ! 

my delight ! 
The Daughter. There came upon 

my dark and troubled mind 
A calm, as when the turnult of the city 
Suddenly ceases, and I lie and hear 
The silver trumpets of the Temple 

blowing 



5^ 



THE DIVIXE TRAGEDY. 



Their welcome to the Sabbath. Still I 

wonder, 
That one who was so far away from me, 
And could not see me, by his thought 

alone 
Had power to heal me. O that I could 
see him ! 
TJie MotJier. Perhaps thou wilt ; for 
I have brought thee here 
To keep the holy Passover, and lay 
Thine offering of thanksgiving on the 

altar. 
Thou mayst both see and hear him. 
Hark! 
Voices afar off. Hosanna I 

TJie DaugJiter. A crowd comes pour- 
ing through the city gate ! 
O mother, look ! 

Voices in tJie street. Hosanna to the 
Son 
Of David! 

TJie Datighter. A great multitude of 
people 
Fills all the street; and riding on an 

ass 
Comes one of noble aspect, like a king I 
The people spread their garments in the 

way, 
And scatter branches of the palm- 
trees I 
Voices. Blessed 

Is he that cometh in the name of the 

Lord ! 
Hosanna in the highest ! 

Oilier Voices. Who is this ? 

Voices. Jesus of Nazareth ! 
TJie DaugJiter. Mother, it is he I 
Voices. He hath called Lazarus of 
Bethany 
Out of his grave, and raised him from 

the dead ! 
Hosanna in the highest ! 

PJiarisees. _ Ye perceive 

That nothing we prevail. Behold, the 

world 
Is all gone after him ! 

TJie DaugJiter. What majesty. 

What power is in that care-worn coun- 
tenance ! 
(Vhat sweetness, what compassion ! I 

no longer 
Wonder that he hath healed me ! 

Voices. Peace in heaven. 

And glory in the highest ! 



PJiarisees. Rabbi I Rabbi ! 

Rebuke thy followers ! 

CJiristus. Should they 

hold their peace 
The very stones beneath us would cry 

out : 
TJie DaugJiter. All hath passed by 

me like a dream of wonder I 
But I have seen him, and have heard 

his voice, 
And I am satisfied ! I ask no more 1 



IL 

SOLOMON'S PORCH. 

Gamaliel tJie Scribe. When Rabban 
Simeon, upon whom be peace I 

Taught in these Schools, he boasted 
that his pen 

Had written no word that he could call 
his own. 

But wholly and always had been con- 
secrated 

To the transcribing of the Law and 
Prophets. 

He used to say, and never tired of say- 
ing, 

The world itself was built upon the 
Law. 

And ancient Hillel said, that whosoever 

Gains a good name, gains something for 
himself, 

But he who gains a knowledge of the 
Law 

Gains everlasting life. And they spake 
truly. 

Great is the Written Law ; but greater 
still 

The Unwritten, the Traditions of the 
Elders, 

The lovely words of Levites, spoken first 

To Moses on the Mount, and handed 
down 

From mouth to mouth, in one unbroken 
sound 

And sequence of divine authority, 

The voice of God resounding through 
the ages. 

The Written Law is water ; the Unwrit- 
ten 

Is precious wine ; the Written Law is 
salt, 



THE THIRD PASSOVER. 



51 



The Unwritten costly spice ; the Writ- 
ten Law 

Is but the body; the Unwritten, the 
soul 

That quickens it, and makes it breathe 
and live. 

I can remember, many years ago, 

A little bright-eyed school-boy, a mere 

stripling, 
Son of a Galilean carpenter, 
From Nazareth, I think, who came one 

day 
And sat here in the Temple with the 

^ Scribes, 
Hearing us speak, and asking many 

questions, 
And we w'ere all astonished at his 

quickness. 
And when his mother came, and said: 

Behold 
Thy father and I have sought thee, sor- 
rowing ; 
He looked as one astonished, and made 

answer : 
How is it that ye sought me ? Wist ye 

not 
That I must be about my Father's 

business? 
Often since then I see him here among 

us. 
Or dream I see him, with his upraised 

face 
Intent and eager, and I often wonder 
Unto what manner of manhood he hath 

grown ! 
Perhaps a poor mechanic, like his 

father, 
Lost in his little Galilean village 
And toiling at his craft, to die un- 
known 
And be no more remembered among 

men. 
Christus {in the outer court). The 

Scribes and Pharisees sit in 

Moses' seat; 
All, therefore, whatsoever they com- 
mand you. 
Observe and do; but fohow not their 

works ; 
They say and do not. They bind 

heavy burdens 
And very grievous to be borne^ and 

lay them 



Upon men's shoulders, but they move 

them not 
With so much as a finger ! 

Gamaliel {looking forth). Who is 

this ^ 
Exhorting in the outer courts so loud- 
ly? 
Christus. Their works they do for to 

be seen ofmen. 
They make broad their phylacteries, 

and enlarge 
The borders of their garments, and 

they love 
The uppermost rooms at feasts, and 

the chief seats 
In Synagogues, and greetings in the 

markets, 
And to be called of all men Rabbi, 

Rabbi ! 
Gamaliel. It is that loud and turbu- 
lent Galilean, 
That came here at the Feast of Dedica- 
tion, 
And stirred the people up to break the 

Law ! 
Christus. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 

and Pharisees, 
Ye hypocrites ! for ye shut up the 

kingdom 
Of heaven, and neither go ye in your- 
selves 
Nor suffer them that are entering to go 

in! 
Gamaliel. How eagerly the people 

throng and listen, 
As if his ribald words were words of 

wisdom ! 
Christus. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 

and Pharisees, 
Ye hypocrites ! for ye devour the 

houses 
Of widows, and for pretence ye make 

long prayers ; 
Therefore shall ye receive the more 

damnation. 
Gamaliel. This brawler is no Jew, 

— he is a vile 
Samaritan, and hath an unclean spirit ! 
Christus. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 

and Pharisees, 
Ye hypocrites ! ye compass sea and 

land 
To make one proselyte, and when he is 

made 



52 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Ye make him twofold more the child of i 
hell 

Than you yourselves are ! 

Gamaliel. O my father's father ! 

Hillel of blessed memory, hear and 
judge ! 
Christ iii. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 
and Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites ! for ye pay tithe of 
mint. 

Of anise and of cumin, and omit 

The weightier matters of the law of God, 

Judgment and faith and mercy ; and 
all these 

Ye ought to have done, nor leave un- 
done the others ! 
Gamaliel. O Rabbau Simeon ! how 
must thy bones 

Stir in their grave to hear such blas- 
phemies ! 
ChrisUis. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 
and Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites I for ye make clean and 
sweet 

The outside of the cup and of the plat- 
ter. 

But they within are full of all excess ! 
Gamaliel. Patience of God ! canst 
thou endure so long? 

Or art thou deaf, or gone upon a jour- 
ney? 
Christiis. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 
and Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites ! for ye are very like 

To whited sepulchres, which indeed 
appear 

Beautiful outwardly, but are within 

Filled full of dead men's bones and all 
uncleanness ! 
Gamaliel. Am I awake? Is this 
Jerusalem? 

And are these Jews that throng and 
stare and listen ? 
Christus. Woe unto you, ye Scribes 
and Pharisees, 

Ye h\-pocrites ! because ye build the 
tombs 

Of Prophets, and adorn the sepulchres 

Of righteous men, and say : If we had 
lived 

When lived our fathers, we would not 
have been 

Partakers with them in the blood of 
Prophets. 



So ye be witnesses unto yourselve!»> 
That ye are children of them triat 

killed the Prophets ! 
Fill ye up then the measure of your 

fathers. 
I send unto you Prophets and Wise 

Men, 
And Scribes, and some ye crucify, and 

some 
Scourge in your Synagogues, and per- 
secute 
From city to city ; that on you may 

come 
The righteous blood that hath been 

shed on earth. 
From the blood of righteous Abel to 

the blood 
OfZacharias, son of Barachias, 
Ye slew between the Temple and the 

altar ! 
Gamaliel. O, had I here my subtle 

dialectician, 
My little Saul of Tarsus, the tent- 
maker. 
Whose wit is sharper than his needle's 

point. 
He would delight to foil this noisy 

wrangler ! 
Christus. Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

O thou 
That killest the Prophets, and that 

stonest them 
Which are sent unto thee, how often 

would I 
Have gathered together thy children, 

as a hen 
Gathereth her chickens underneath her 

wing. 
And ye would not ! Behold, your 

house is left 
Unto you desolate ! 

The People. This is a Prophet ! 

This is the Christ that was to come ! 

Gamaliel. Ye fools ! 

Think ye, shall Christ come out of 

Galilee ? 

III. 

LORD, IS IT I? 

ChrisUis. One of you shall betray me. 
Th.e Disciples. Is it I? 

Lord, is it Ir 



THE THIRD PASSOVER. 



53 



Christus. One of the Twelve it is 
That dippeth with me in this dish his 

hand ; 
He shall betray me. Lo, the Son of 

Man 
Goeth indeed as it is written of him ; 
But woe shall be unto that man by 

whom 
He is betrayed ! Good were it for that 

man 
If he had ne'er been born ! * 

Judas Iscariot. Lord, is it I ? 

Christiis. Ay, thou hast said. And 

that thou doest, do quickly. 
Judas Iscariot {going out). Ah, woe 

is me ! 
Christus. All ye shall be offended 
Because of me this night ; for it is 

written : 
Awake, O sword against my shepherd ! 

Smite 
The shepherd, saith the Lord of hosts, 

and scattered 
Shall be the sheep ! — But after I am 

risen 
I go before you into Galilee. 
Peter. O Master ! though all men 
shall be offended 
Because of thee, yet will not I be ! 

Christtis. Simon, 

Behold how Satan hath desired to have 

you. 
That he may sift you as one sifteth 

wheat! 
Whither I go thou canst not follow me, 
Not now ; — but thou shalt follow me 
hereafter. 
Peter. Wherefore can I not follow 
• thee ? I am ready 
To go with thee to prison and to death. 
Christus. Verily say I unto thee, this 
night, 
Ere the cock crow, thou shalt deny me 
thrice ! 
Peter. Though I should die, yet 

will I not deny thee. 
Ch-} istus. When first I sent you 
forth without a purse. 
Or scrip, or shoes, did ye lack any- 
thing? 
The Disciples. Not anything. 
Christus. But he that hath a purse. 
Now let him take it, and likewise his 
scrip ; 



And he that hath no sword, let him go 

sell 
His clothes and buy one. That which 

hath been written 
Must be accomplished now : He hath 

poured out 
His soul even unto death ; he hath 

been numbered 
With the transgressors, and himself 

hath borne 
The sin of many, and made intercession 
For the transgressors. And here have 

an end 
The things concerning me. 

Peter. Behold, O Lord, 

Behold, here are two swords ! 

Christus. It is enough. 



IV. 

THE GARDEN OF GETH- 
SEMANE. 

Christus. My spirit is exceeding 
sorrowful 
Even unto death ! Tarry ye here and 
watch. 

{He goes apart. ) 

Peter. Under this ancient olive-tree, 
that spreads 
Its broad centennial branches like a 

tent, 
Let us lie down and rest. 

John. What are those torches, 

That glimmer on Brook Kedron there 
below us ? 
James. It is some marriage feast; 
the joyful maidens 
Go out to meet the bridegroom. 

Peter, I am weary. 

The struggles of this day have over- 
come me. 

{They sleepy 

Christus {falling on his face) Fa- 
ther ! all things are possible to 
thee, — 

O let this cup pass from me ! Never- 
theless 

Not as I will, but as thou wilt, be done ! 

{Returning to the Disciples. ) 



54 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



What I could ye not watch with me for 
one hour? 

watch and pray, that ye may enter 

not 
Into temptation. For the spirit indeed 
Is willing, but the flesh is weak ! 

JoJm. Alas ! 

It is for sorrow that our eyes are 

heavy. — 

1 see again theglimmer of those torches 
Among the olives ; they are coming 

hither. 
James. Outside the garden wall the 
path divides ; 
Surely they come not hither. 

{TJiey sleep again.) 

Christtis {as before). O my Father ! 
If this cup may not pass away from 

me. 
Except 1 drink of it, thy will be done. 

{Rettirning to the Disciples.) 

Sleep on ; and take your rest ! 

John. Beloved Master, 

Alas ! we know not what to answer 

thee ! 
It is for sorrow that our eyes are 

heavy. — 
Behold, the torches now encompass us. 
James. They do but go about the 

garden wall, 
Seeking for some one, or for something 

lost. 

{They sleep again ^ 

Christtis {as be/ore). If this cup may 
not pass away from me, 
Except I drink of it, thy will be done. 

{Returning to the Disciples) 

It is enough ! Behold, the Son of 
Man 

Hath been betrayed into the hands of 
sinners ! 

The hour is come. Rise up, let us be 
going ; 

For he that shall betray me is at hand. 
John. Ah me ! See, from his fore- 
head, in the torchlight. 

Great drops of blood are falling to the 
ground ! 
Peter. What lights are these? 
What torches glare and glisten 



Upon the swords and armor of thes« 

men ? 
And there among them Judas Iscariot I 

{He smites the servant of the High- 
Priest ivith his sword.) 

Christies. Put up thy sword into its 

sheath ; for they 
That take the sword shall perish with 

the sword. 
The cup my Father hath given me to 

drink. 
Shall I not drink it? Think'st thou 

that I cannot 
Pray to my Father, and that he shall 

give me 
More than twelve legions of angels 

presently ? 
Jtidas {to Christtis, kissing him). 

Hail, Master ! hail ! 
Christtis. Friend, wherefore art thou 

come ? 
Whom seek ye ? 

Captain of tJte Temple. Jesus of 

Nazareth. 
Christtis. I am he. 

Are ye come hither as against a thief. 
With swords and staves to take me ? 

^Vhen I daily 
Was with you in the Temple, ye 

stretched forth 
No hands to take me ! But this is 

your hour, 
And this the power of darkness. If ye 

seek 
Me only, let these others go their way. 

{The Disciples depart. Christus is 
bound and led away. A certain 
young man follows him, having a 
linen cloth cast about his body. They 
lay hold of him, and the young man 
flees from them tiaked.) 



V. 

THE PALACE OF CAIAPHAS. 

Pharisees. What do we ? Clearly 
something must we do, 
For this man worketh many miracles. 
Caiaphas. I am informed that he is 
a mechanic ; 
A carpenter's son : a Galilean peasant, 
Keeping disreputable company. 



THE THIRD PASSOVER. 



Pharisees. The people say that here 

in Bethany 
He hath raised up a certain Lazarus, 
Who had been dead three days. 

CaiapJuxs. Impossible ! 

There is no resurrection of the dead ; 
This Lazarus should be taken, and put 

to death 
As an impostor. If this Galilean 
Would be content to stay in Galilee, 
And preach in country towns, 1 should 

not heed him. 
But when he comes up to Jerusalem 
Riding in triumph, as I am informed. 
And drives the money-changers from 

the Temple, 
That is another matter. 

Pharisees. If we thus 

Let him alone, all will believe on him, 
And then the Romans come and take 

away 
Our place and nation. 

Caiaphas. Ye know nothing at all. 
Simon Ben Camith, my great predeces- 
sor. 
On whom be peace ! would have dealt 

presently 
With such a demagogue. I shall no 

less. 
The man must die. Do ye consider 

not 
It is expedient that one man should die, 
Not the whole nation perish ? W^hat 

is death? 
It diflfereth from sleep but in duration. 
We sleep and wake again ; an hour or 

two 
Later or earlier, and it matters not, 
And if we never wake it matters 

not ; 
When we are in our graves we are at 

peace. 
Nothing can wake us or disturb us 

more. 
There is no resurrection. 

Pharisees {aside). O most faithful 
Disciple of Hircanus Maccabsus, 
Will nothing but complete annihilation 
Comfort and satisfy thee ? 

Caiaphas. While ye are talking 

And plotting, and contriving how to 

take him. 
Fearing the people, and so doing 

naught, 



I, who fear not the people, have been 
acting ; 

Have taken this Prophet, this young 
Nazarene, 

Who by Beelzebub the Prince of devils 

Casteth out devils, and doth raise the 
dead. 

That might as well be dead, and left 
in peace. 

Annas my father-in-law hath sent him 
hither. 

I hear the guard. Behold your Gali- 
lean ! 

(Christus is brought i^i bo7md. ) 

Servant {in the vestibule.) Why art 
thou up so late, my pretty dam- 
sel ? 
Damsel. Why art thou up so early, 
pretty man ? 
It is not cock-crow yet, and art thou 
stirring ? 
Serva7it. What brings thee here ? 
DaTnsel. What brings the rest of you? 
Servant. Come here and warm thy 

hands. 
Damsel {to Peter.) Art thou not also 
One of this man's disciples? 

Peter. I am not. 

Damsel. Now surely thou art also 
one of them ; 
Thou art a Galilean, and thy speech 
Bewrayeth thee. 
Peter. Woman, I know him not ! 
Caiaphas {to Christus., in the Hall). 
Who art thou? Tell us plainly 
of thyself 
And of thy doctrines, and of thy disci- 
ples. 
Christus. Lo, I have spoken openly 
to the world, ^ 
I have taught ever in the Synagogue, 
And in the Temple, where the Jews re- 
sort ; 
In secret have said nothing. Where- 
fore then 
Askest thou me of this ? Ask them 

that heard me 
What I have said to them. Behold 

they know 
What I have said ! 

Officer {striking him). What, fellow/ 
answerest thou 
The High-Priest so ? 



THE DIVIXE TRAGEDY 



If I ha^ spoken e^ 
of the erfl ; but if ^veU. 



Ckrittms. 
Bearwitnes 
Wbysmitesttiioa me? 

Camfkas. Where are the 
Let them say what thej know. 

Tke tmo Fmise Witmeaes. We 
heard him saT : 
I viD destroy this Tez: I. e -i£e -s-.-Ji 

hands. 
And win whhin three dairs build ^ 



As if he «oald 



Made without 
Scribes mmd PkaHseex. He is o*er- 



And cannot 

Caimikas. Dost thon ; 
What IS this thine they 



Scriba amd Pharisees. He holds 

faispeacei 
Caia^kas. TeD bs» ait thoa the 
Christ? 
I do aiigme thee by tibe InriDg God, 
TeD OS, art than indeed die CSnist? 

Ckrisims. lam. 

Hereafter sfaaD ye see the Son of Man 
Sit on the ligltit hand of the power of 

God, 
And come in cionds of heaven ! 

Caiafias{remdim^kiscieikesy Itb 



of those 



z.:t :zt cockcrow dKm shah deny me 
■Jirice ! 

(G«ier«B/merJa^. Chsistus is SHrnd- 
f elded amd H^eied.) 

Am Officer {sirikimg^ khm miik his 
falmi^ Prophesy onto ns^ thon 
Christ, thoa Prophet ! 
Who is it smote thee ? 

Caia/has. Lead him unto Pilate 1 



VI. 
PONTIUS PILATE. 
WhoOy 



PUmie. 
tomc^ 
VaiiiglonoQS, obstinate, and given vp 
To imintpnigiHe oM traditioos. 



Jews! 
Not long agoi, I mairhpd the legions 



From Czsarea todidr 

Here in Jerusalem, with the _ 

Of Cxsar on their «'««=ig"<i, and a 



He hath spoken blasphemy! What 

fintherneed 
Hare we of witnesses ? Now ye hare 

heaid 



Arose 



Aese Jews, 



thor 



His blasphemy. What 
he guilty? 
Scribes amd Pharisees. Gmhy of 

death! 
Kimsmam mf Mmichms {U Peier, im 
thevestibmU.) Smdy I know thy 
^oe. 
Did I not see thee indie garden with 
him? 
Peter. How oooldst dioa see me ? I 
swear onto thee 
1 do not know this man of whom ye 

{T7ke cech crmnJ) 

Hark ! the cock crows ! That juimw - 

fill, pole &oe 
Sedslbr me in die crowd, and looks 

at me. 



Forinds the making of an images ! 
Th^ threw thrmsehes npon the 

ground with wild 
E^qtostnlatians, baied dieir necks, and 

cried 
That ther would sooner <fie dian have 

thor Law 
Infiringied in any manner : as if Noma 
Were not as great as Moses, and die 

Laws 
Of die Twelve Tables as thdr Penta- 



I desired to 



Their valley with 



A 
Audits 



liver in to wash the dty 

— ther an rebelled 



As if they had been herds of nnwadied 



together 



THE THIRD PASSOVER, 



57 



And raised so great a clamor round my 
doors, 

That, fearing violent outbreak, I de- 
sisted, 

And left them to their wallowing in the 
mire. 

And now here comes the reverend 
Sanhedrim 

Of lawyers, priests, and Scribes and 
Pharisees 

Like old and toothless mastiffs, that 
can bark. 

But cannot bite, howling their accusa- 
tions 

Against a mild enthusiast, who hath 
preached 

I know not what new doctrine, being 
King 

Of some vague kingdom in the other 
world. 

That hath no more to do with Rome 
and C^sar 

Than I have with the patriarch Abra- 
ham ! 

Finding this man to be a Galilean, 

I sent him straight to Herod, and I 
hope 

That is the last of it ; but if it be not, 

I still have power to pardon and re- 
lease him. 

As is the custom at the Passover, 

And so accommodate the matter 
^ smoothly, 

Seeming to j'ield to them, yet saving 
him ; 

A prudent and sagacious policy 

For Roman Governors in the Provinces. 

Incomprehensible, fanatic people ! 

Ye have a God, who seemeth like your- 
selves 

Incomprehensible, dwelling apart. 

Majestic, cloud-encompassed, clothed 
in darkness ! 

One whom ye fear, but love not ; yet 
ye have 

No Goddesses to soften your stern 
lives, 

And make you tender unto human 
weakness, 

While we of Rome have everywhere 
around us 

Our amiable divinities, that haunt 



The woodlands, and the waters, and 

frequent 
Our households, with their sweet and 

gracious presence ! 
I will go in, and while these Jews are 

wrangling. 
Read my Ovidius on the Art of Love. 



VII. 
BARABBAS IN PRISON. 

Barabbas {to his felloiv-prisoners). 
Barabbas is my name, 
Barabbas, the Son of Shame, 

Is the meaning I suppose ; 
I 'm no better than the best, 
And whether worse than the rest 

Of my fellow-men, who knows ? 

I was once, to say it in brief, 
xA. highwayman, a robber chief, 

In the open light of day. 
So much I am free to confess ; 
But all men, more or less. 

Are robbers in their way. 

From my cavern in the crags. 
From my lair of leaves and flags, 

I could see, like ants, below, 
The camels with their load 
Of merchandise, on the road 

That leadeth to Jericho. 

And I struck them unaware. 
As an eagle from the air 

Drops down upon bird or beast ; 
And I had my heart's desire 
Of the merchants of Sidon and Tyre, 

And Damascus and the East. 

But it is not for that I fear ; 
It is not for that I am here 

In these iron fetters bound ; 
Sedition ! that is the word 
That Pontius Pilate heard. 

And he liketh not the sound. 

What, think ye, w^ould he care 
For a Jew slain here or there. 

Or a plundered caravan ? 
But Caesar ! — ah, that is a crime, 
To the uttermost end of time 

Shall not be forgiven to man. 



58 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Therefore was Herod wroth 
With Matthias Margaloth, 

And burned him for a show ! 
Therefore his wrath did smite 
Judas the Gaulonite, 

And his followers, as ye know. 

For that cause, and no more, 
Am I here, as I said before ; 

For one unlucky night, 
Jucundus, the captain of horse, 
Was upon us with all his force. 

And I was caught in the fight. 

I might have fled with the rest, 
But my dagger was in the breast 

Of a Roman equerry ; 
As we rolled there in the street, 
They bound me, hands and feet; 

And this is the end of me. 

Who cares for death ? Not I ! 
A thousand times I would die, 

Rather tlian suffer wrong ! 
Already those women of mine 
Are mixing the myrrh and the wine 

I shall not be with you long. 



VIII. 

ECCE HOMO. 

Pilate {on the Tessellated Paveme^it 
in/ront of his Palace). Ye have 
brought unto me this man, as one 

Who doth pervert the people ; and be- 
hold ! 

I have examined him, and found no 
fault 

Touching the things whereof ye do 
accuse him. 

No, nor yet Herod: fori sent you to him, 

And nothing worthy of death he findeth 
in him. 

Ye have a custom at the Passover, 

That one condemned to death shall be 
released. 

Whom will ye, then, that I release to 
you ? 

Jesus Barabbas, called the Son of 
Shame, 

Or Jesus, Son of Joseph, called the 
Christ? 
The People {shouting). Not this 
man, but Barabbas ! 



Pilate. What then will ye 

That I should do with bim that is 

called Christ? 

The People. Crucify him ! 

Pilate. Why, whal evil hath he done? 

Lo, I have found no cause of death in 

him ; 
I will chastise him, and then let him go. 
The PeoJ)le {more vehemently). Cru- 
cify him I crucify him I 
A Messenger {to Pilate). Thy wife 
sends 
This message to thee: — Have thou 

naught to do 
With that just man : for I this day in 

dreams 
Have suffered many things because of 
him. 
Pilate {aside). The Gods speak to 
U5 in our dreams ! I tremble 
At what I have to do ! O Claudia, 
How shall I save him ? Yet one effort 

more. 
Or he must perish ! 

{Washes his Jiands before them.) 
I am innocent 
Of the blood of this just person ; see ye 
to it ! 
The People. Let his blood be on us 

and on our children ! 
Voices {ivithiji tJie Palace)- Put on 
thy royal robes ; put on thy crown. 
And take thy sceptre ! Hail, thou 
King of the Jews ! 
Pilate. I bring him forth to you, that 
ye may know 
I find no fault in him. Behold the man ! 

(Christus is led in, with the purple 
robe and crown of thortis.) 

Chief Priests and Officers. Crucify 

him ! crucify him ! 
Pilate. Take ye him ; 

I find no fault in him. 

Chief Priests. We have a Law. 

And by our Law he ought to die; because 
He made himself to be the Son of God. 
Pilate {aside). Ah ! there are Sons 
of God, and demi-gods 
More than ye know, ye ignorant High- 
Priests ! 

{To Chrutus.) 

Whence art thou ? 



THE THIRD PASSOVER. 



59 



Chief Priests. Crucify him ! crucify 

him ! 
Pilate {to Ckrisijis). Dost thou not an- 
swer me? Dost thou not know 
That I have power enough to crucify 

thee ? 
That I have also power to set thee free ? 
Christies. Thou couldest have no 
power at all against me 
Except that it were given thee from 

above ; 
Therefore hath he that sent me unto thee 
The greater sin. 

Chief Priests. If thou let this man go, 
Thou art not Csesar's friend. For who- 
soever 
Maketh himself a King, speaks against 
Caesar. 
Pilate. Ye Jews, behold your King ! 
Chief Priests. Away with him ! 

Crucify him ! 
Pilate. Shall I crucify your King? 
Chief Priests. We have no King but 

Cssar ! 
Pilate- Take him, then, 

Take him, ye cruel and bloodthirsty 

Priests, 
More merciless than the plebeian mob, 
Who pity and spare the fainting gladia- 
tor 
Blood-stained in Roman amphithea- 
tres, — 
Take him, and crucify him if 3'^e will ; 
But if the immortal Gods do ever min- 
gle 
With the affairs of mortals, which I 

doubt not, 
And hold the attribute of justice dear, 
They will commission the Eumenides 
To scatter you to the four winds of heav- 
en, 
Exacting tear for tear, and blood for 

blood. 
Here, take ye this inscription. Priests, 

and nail it 
Upon the cross, above your victim's 

head : 
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, 
Chief Priests. Nay, we entreat ! 
write not, the King of the Jews ; 
But that he said : I am the King of 
the Jews ! 
Pilate. Enough. What I have writ- 
ten, I have written ! 



IX. 

ACELDAMA. 

Judas Iscariot. Lost ! lost ! forevei 
lost ! I have betrayed 

The innocent blood ! O God ! if thou 
art love, 

Why didst thou leave me naked to the 
tempter? 

Why didst thou not commission thy 
swdft lishtning 

To strike me dead? or why did I not 
perish 

With those by Herod slain, the inno- 
cent children 

Who went with playthings in their little 
hands 

Into the darkness of the other world, 

As if to bed? Or wherefore was I born, 

If thou in thy foreknowledge didst per- 
ceive 

All that I am, and all that I must be? 

I know I am not generous, am not gentle 

Like other men ; but I have tried tqbe, 

And I have failed. I thought by fol- 
lowing Him, 

I should grow like him ; but the un- 
clean spirit 

That from my childhood up hath tor- 
tured me 

Hath been too cunning and too strong 
for me. 

Am I to blame for this? Am I to 
blame 

Because I cannot love, and ne'er have 
known 

The love of woman or the love of chil- 
dren ? 

It is a curse and a fatality, 

A mark, that hath been set upon my 
forehead, 

That none shall slay me, for it were a 
mercy 

That I were dead, or never had been 
born. 

Too late ! too late ! I shall not see him 
more 

Among the Hving. That sweet, patient 
face 

Will never more rebuke me, nor those 
lips 

Repeat the words : One of you shall be- 
tray me ! 



THE Dll'lXE TRAGEDY 



It stung me into madness. How I 

loved. 
Yet hated him ! Bat in the other world ! 
I will be there b^bre him, and wiH wait 
Until he comes and lail down on my 



And kiss his feet, imploni^ pardon, 
pardoQ ! 

I ikeard him say : All sins shall be fbr- 

gn'cn. 
Except the sin against the Holy Ghost. 
That shall not be ftwgiieu in this world. 
Nor in the wcrid to oome. Is that my 



Have I offended so there is no hope 
Here nor hereafter? That I soon shall 

know. 
O God, have menry ! Christ have mer- 
cy on me ! 

(jrkroivs kzmSelf headlong from the 
cliff.) 



THE THREE CROSSES. 



the Essenian. Three 
crosses in this noonday night up- 
lifted. 

Three human figures, that in mortal 
pain 

Gleam white against the snpematnral 
darkness ; 

Two thieves, that writhe in torture, and 
between them 

The sujTering Messiah, the Son of Jo- 
seph, 

At, the Messiah TrimnpliaDt, Son of 
David : 

A crown of thorns on that dishoDOved 
head [ 

Those hands that healed the sick now 
pierced with nails. 

Those feet that wandered homeless 
thnx^h tibe world 

Now crossed and bleedzo^ and at rest 
forever 1 

And tRe three feithful Maries, over- 
whelmed 

By this great sorrow, kufctinfU P'*J™& 
weeping \ 



O Joseph Caiaphas, thou great High- 
Priest, 
How wilt thou answer for this deed of 
blood? 
Scribes and Elders. Thou that de- 
stroyest the T^npte, and dost 
build it 
In three davs, save thv^self ; and if thoo 

be 
The Son of God, come down now firom 
the cross. 
Chief Priests. Others he sared, him- 
self he cannot save I 
Let Christ the King of Israel descend. 
That we may see and believe ! 

Scribes and Elders. In God 

he trusted ; 
Let him deliver him, if he will hare him. 
And we wiU then believe. 

Christus. Father I forgive them ; 
They know not what they do. 

The Impenitent Thief If than 

be Christ, 
O save thyself and us ! 

The Penitent Thief Remember me. 
Lord, when thou comest into thine 
own kingdom. 
Ckristus. This day shalt thoa be 

with me in Paradise. 
Manakem. Golgotha ! Golgotha ! 
O the pain and darkness I 
O the uplifted cross, that shall forever 
Shine throogh the darkness, and shall 



By the triumphant memory of this hoar ! 

Simon Mxgus. O Xazarene ! I find 
thee here at last ! 

Thou art no more a phantom mito me ! 

This is the end of one who called him- 
self 

The Son of God! Such is the &te of 
those 

Who preach new doctrines. *T is not 
what he did. 

Bat what he said, hath brought him 
onto this. 

I will speak evil of no dignitaries. 

This is my hoar of triumph, Nazarene ! 
The Yineng Rtder. This is the end 
of him who said to me : 

Sdl that thoa hast, and give onto the 
poor ! 

This is the treasare in hea«:pn he prom- 
ised me ! 



THE THIRD PASSOVER, 



6i 



Christus. EloU Eloi, lama sabac- 

thani I 
A Soldier {preparing tlte hyssop). 

He calleth for Elias ! 
Another. Nay, let be ! 

See if Elias now will come to save him ! 
Christies. I thirst. 

A Soldier. Give him the wormwood ! 
Christus {ivitli a loud cry, bowing his 

head). It is finished ! 

XI. 

THE TWO MARIES. 

Mary Magdalene. We have arisen 
early, yet the sun 

O'ertakes us ere we reach the sepul- 
chre, 

To wrap the body of our blessed Lord 

With our sweet spices. 

Mary, fnotlier of James. Lo, this 
is the garden, 

And yonder is the sepulchre. But who 

ShaU roll away the stone for us to 
enter ? 
Mary Magdalene^ It hath been 
rolled away ! The sepukhre 

Is open ! Ah, who hath been here be- 
fore us. 

When we rose early, wishing to be first ? 
Mary,^ viotlier of James. I am af- 
frighted ! 
Mary Magdalene. Hush ! I will 
stoop down 

And look within. There is a young 
man sitting 

On the right side, clothed in a long 
white garment ! 

It is an angel ! 

The A ngel. Fear not ; ye are seek- 
ing 

Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified. 

Why do ye seek the living among the 
dead? 

He is no longer here ; he is arisen ! 

Come see the place where the Lord lay ! 
Remember 

How he spake unto you in Galilee, 

Saying : The Son of Man must be de- 
livered 

Into the hands of sinful men ; by them 

Be crucified, and the third day rise 
again I 



But go your way, and say to his disci- 
ples, 
He goeth before you into Galilee ; 
There shall ye see him as he said to you. 
Mary, ^wtJier of James. I wDl go 

swiftly for them. 
Mary Magdalene {alone, weeping). 
They have taken 
My Lord away from me, and now 1 

know not 
Where they have laid him ! Who is 

there to tell me? 
This is the gardener. Surely he must 
know. 
Christus. Woman, why weepest 

thou? Whom seekest thou? 
Mary Magda,le7te. They have taken 
my Lord away ; I cannot find 
him. 
O Sir, if thou have borne him hence, I 

pray thee 
Tell me where thou hast laid him. 
Christus. Mary ! 

Mary Magdalene. Rabboni ! 



XIL 
THE SEA OF GALILEE. 

Nathanael {in the ship). All is now 

ended. 
John. Nay, he is arisen. 

I ran unto the tomb, and stooping down 
Looked in, and saw the linen grave- 
clothes lying. 
Yet dared not enter. 

Peter. I went in, and saw 

The napkin that had been about his 

head, 
Not lying with the other linen clothes, 
But wrapped together in a separate 

place. 
Thomas. And I have seen him. I 

have seen the print 
Of nails upon his hands, and thrust 

my hands 
Into his side. I know he is arisen ; 
But where are now the kingdom and 

the glory 
He promised unto us? We have all 

dreamed 
That we were princes, and we wake to 

find 
We are but fishermen. 



63 



THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 



Peter. Who should have been 
Fishers of men ! 

John. We have come back again 
To the old life, the peaceful life, 

among 
The white towns of the Galilean lake. 
Peter. They seem to me like silent 
sepulchres 
In the gray light of morning ! The 

old life, 
Yea, the old life ! for we have toiled all 

night 
And have caught nothing. 

JoJui. Do ye see a man 

Standing upon the beach and beckon- 

'T is like an apparition. He hath 

kindled 
A fire of coals, and seems to wait for us. 
He calleth. 

Christzis {/rotn the shore). Children, 

have ye any meat? 
Peter. Alas ! We have caught 

nothing. 
Christtis. Cast the net 

On the right side of the ship, and ye 
shall find. 
Peter. How that reminds me of the 
days gone by, 
And one who said : Launch out into the 

deep. 
And cast your nets ! 
Nathanael. We have but let 

them down 
And they are filled, so that we cannot 
draw them ! 
John. It is the Lord ! 
Peter {girding his fisher's coat about 
hitn). He said : When I am 
risen 
I will go before you into Galilee ! 

{He casts hi^nself into tJie lake.) 

John. There is no fear in love ; for 

perfect love 
Casteth out fear. Now then, if ye are 

men. 
Put forth your strength ; we are not far 

from shore ; 
The net is heavy, but breaks not. All 

is safe. 
Peter {on the shore). Dear Lord ! I 

heard thy voice and could not 

wait. 



Let me behold thy face, and kiss thy 

feet ! 
Thou art not dead, thou livest ! Again 

I see thee. 
Pardon, dear Lord ! I am a sinful 

man ; 
I have denied thee thrice. Have 
mercy on me ! 
The OtJurs {comiftg to land). Deaf 
! Lord ! stay with us ! cheer us ! 

j comfort us ! 

Lo ! we again have found thee ! Leave 
us not ! 
Christus. Bring hither of the fish 
that ye have caught. 
And come and eat. 

John. Behold ! he breaketh bread 
As he was wont. From his own bless- 
ed hands 
Again we take it. 

Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me, more than these 

others ? 

Peter. Yea, 

More, Lord, than all men ; even more 

than these. 
Thou knowest that I love thee. 

Christjis. Feed my Iambs. 

Thomas {aside). How more than 
we do? He remaineth ever 
Self-confident and boastful as before. 
Nothing will cure him. 

Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me ? 

Peter. Yea, dearest Lord, I love thee. 
Thou knowest that I love thee. 

Christies. Feed my sheep. 

Thotnas {aside). Again, the self-same 
question, and the answer 
Repeated with more vehemence. Can 

the Master 
Doubt if we love him ? 

Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me? 

Peter {grieved). Dear Lord ! thou 
knowest all things. 
Thou knowest that I love thee. 

Christus. Feed my sheep. 

When thou wast young thou girdedst 

thyself, and walkedst 
Whither thou wouldst ; but when thou 

shalt be old, 
Thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, 5U,d 
other men 



THE THIRD PASSOVER. 



63 



Shall gird and carry thee whither thou 

wouldst not. 
Follow thou me 1 

John {aside). It is a prophecy 

"Of what death he shall die. 
Peter {pointing to John). Tell me, O 
Lord, 
Vnd what shall this man do ? 
ChruiuJt. And if I will 



He tarry till I come, what is it to thee ? 
Follow thou me ! 
Peter. Yea, I will follow thee, dear 

Lord and Master ! 
Will follow thee through fasting and 

temptation. 
Through all thiue agony and bloody 

sweat, 
Thy cross and passion, even unto death I 



EPILOGUE 



SYMBOLUM APOSTOLORUM. 

Peter. I believe in God the Father 

Almighty ; 
yohn. Maker of Heaven and Earth ; 
James. And in Jesus Christ his 

only Son, our Lord ; 
Andrew. Who was conceived by 

the Holy Ghost, born of the 

Virgin Mary ; 
Philip. Suffered under Pontius Pi- 
late, was crucified, dead and 

buried ; 
Thomas. And the third day he rose 

again from the dead ; 



Bartholomew. He ascended into 
Heaven, and sitteth on the right 
hand of God, the Father Al- 
mighty ; 

Matthew. From thence he shall 
come to judge the quick and the 
dead. 

James., the Son of Alpheus. I be- 
lieve in the Holy Ghost; the holy 
Catholic Church ; 

Simon Zelotes. The communion of 
Saints ; the forgiveness of sins ; 

Jtide. The resurrection of the body ; 

Matthias. And the Life Everlast- 
ing. 



FIRST INTERLUDE, 

THE ABBOT JOACHIM. 



THE ABBOT JOACHIM. 



A room in the Convent of Flora in 
Calabria. Night. 

Joachim. The wind is rising ; it 

seizes and shakes 
The doors and window-blinds, and 

makes 
Mysterious meanings in the halls ; 
The convent-chimneys seem almost 
The trumpets of some heavenly host, 
Setting its watch upon our walls ! 
Where it listeth, there it bloweth ; 
We hear the sound, but no man 

knoweth 
Whence it cometh or whither it goeth, 
And thus it is with the Holy Ghost. 

breath of God ! O my delight 
In many a vigil of the night, 

Like the great voice in Patraos heard 
By John, the Evangelist of the Word, 

1 hear thee behind me saying : Write 
In a book the things that thou hast 

seen, 
The things that are, and that have 

been, 
And the things that shall hereafter be ! 

This convent, on the rocky crest 
Of the Calabrian hills, to me 
A Patmos is wherein I rest ; 
While round about me like a sea 
The white mists roll, and overflow 
The world that lies unseen below 
In darkness and in mystery. 
Here in the Spirit, in the vast 
Embrace of God's encircling arm, 
Am I uplifted from all harm ; 
The world seems" something far away, 
Something belonging to the Past, 
A hostlery, a peasant's farm. 
That lodged me for a night or day, 



In which I care not to remain, 
Nor, having left, to see again. 

Thus, in the hollow of God's hand 

I dwelt on sacred Tabor's height, 

When as a simple acolyte 

I journeyed to the Holy Land, 

A pilgrim for my Master's sake. 

And saw the Galilean Lake, 

And walked through many a villag« 

street 
That once had echoed to his feet. 
There first I heard the great command, 
The voice behind me saying : Write ! 
And suddenly my soul became 
Illumined by a flash of flame, 
That left imprinted on my thought 
The image I in vain had sought. 
And which forever shall remain ; 
As sometimes from these windows 

high, 
Gazing at midnight on the sky 
Black with a storm of wind and rain, 
I have beheld a sudden glare 
Of lightning lay the landscape bare, 
With tower and town and hill and plain 
Distinct, and burnt into my brain, 
Never to be effaced again ! 

And I have written. These volumes 

three, 
The Apocalypse, the Harmony 
Of the Sacred Scriptures, new and old, 
And the Psalter with Ten Strings, en- 
fold 
Within their pages, all and each. 
The Eternal Gospel that I teach. 
Well I remember the Kingdom of 

Heaven 
Hath been likened to a little leaven 



68 



THE ABBOT JOACHIM, 



Hidden in two measures of meal, 
Until it leavened the whole mass ; 
So likewise will it come to pass 
With the doctrine that I here conceal. 

Open and manifest to me 
The truth appears, and must be told : 
All sacred mysteries are threefold ; 
Three Persons in the Trinity, 
Three Ages of Humanity, 
And Holy Scriptures likewise Three, 
Of Fear, of Wisdom, and of Love ; 
For Wisdom that begins in Fear 
Endeth in Love ; the atmosphere 
In which the soul delights to be, 
And finds that perfect liberty. 
Which Cometh only from above. 

In the first Age, the early prime 
And dawn of all historic time, 
The Father reigned ; and face to face 
He spake with the primeval race. 
Bright Angels, on his errands sent. 
Sat with the patriarch in his tent ; 
His prophets thundered in the street ; 
His lightnings flashed, his hail-storms 

beat ; 
In tempest and in cloud he came. 
In earthquake and in flood and flame ! 
The fear of God is in his Book ; 
The pages of the Pentateuch 
Are full of the terror of his name. 

Then reigned the Son ; his Covenant 
Was peace on earth, good-will to man ; 
With him the reign of Law began. 
He was the Wisdom and the Word, 
And sent his Angels Ministrant, 
Unterrified and undeterred, 
To rescue souls forlorn and lost, 
The troubled, tempted, tempest-tost, 
To heal, to comfort, and to teach. 
The fiery tongues of Pentecost 
His symbols were, that they should 

preach 
In every form of human speech, 
From continent to continent. 
He is the Light Divine, whose rays 
Across the thousand years unspent 
Shine through the darkness of our days, 
And touch with their celestial fires 
Our churches and our convent spires. 
His Book is the New Testament. 



These Ages now are of the Past ; 
And the Third Age begins at last. 
The coming of the Holy Ghost, 
The reign of Grace, the reign of Love, 
Brightens the mountain-tops above, 
And the dark outhne of the coast. 
Already the whole land is white 
With convent walls, as if by night 
A snow had fallen on hill and height ! 
Already from the streets and marts 
Of town and traffic, and low cares. 
Men climb the consecrated stairs 
With weary feet, and bleeding hearts ; 
And leave the world, and its delights. 
Its passions, struggles, and despairs. 
For contemplation and for prayers 
In cloister-cells of Coenobites. 

Eternal benedictions rest 
Upon thy name. Saint Benedict ! 
Founder of convents in the West, 
Who built on Mount Cassino's crest, 
In the Land of Labor, thine eagle's 

nest ! 
May I be found not derelict 
In aught of faith or godly fear. 
If I have written, in many a page, 
The Gospel of the coming age, 
The Eternal Gospel men shall hear. 
O may I live resembhng thee, 
And die at last as thou hast died ; 
So that hereafter men may see, 
Within the choir, a form of air. 
Standing with arms outstretched in 

prayer. 
As one that hath been crucified I 

My work is finished ; I am strong 
In faith and hope and charity ; 
For I have written the things I see. 
The things that have been and shall be, 
Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong ; 
Because I am in love with Love, 
And the sole thing I hate is Hate ; 
For Hate is death ; and Love is life, 
A peace, a splendor from above ; 
And Hate, a never-ending strife, 
A smoke, a blackness from the abyss 
Where unclean serpents coil and hiss ! 
Love is the Holy Ghost within ; 
Hate the unpardonable sin ! 
Who preaches otherwise than this, 
Betrays his Master with a kiss ! 



PART TWO. 

THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



PROLOGUE 



THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG 
CATHEDRAL. 

Night and storm. Lucifer, with the 
Powers of the Air^ trying to tear 
down the Cross* 

Ltici/er. Hasten ! hasten ! 
O ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the ponderous 
Cross of iron, that to mock us 
Is uplifted high in air ! 

Voices. O, we cannot ! 
For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels 
Throng in legions to protect it ; 
They defeat us everywhere ! 
The Bells. 
Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem voco ! 
Congrego clerum ! 

Lucifer. Lower ! lower ! 
Hover downward ! 
Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and 
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement 
Hurl them from their windy tower ! 

Voices. All thy thunders 
Here are harmless ! 
For these bells have been anointed, 
And baptized with holy water ! 
They defy our utmost power. 

The Bells. 

Defunctos ploro ! 
Pestem fugo ! 
Festa decoro ! 
Lticifer. Shake the casements ! 
Break the painted 

Panes, that flame with gold and crim- 
son ; 
Scatter theni like haves of Autumn, 
!iwen^ rv.Tv before the Lias' I 



Voices. O, we cannot ! 
The Archangel 

Michael flames from every window, 
With the sword of fire that drove us 
Headlong, out of heaven, aghast ! 

The Bells. 
Funera plango ! 
Fulgura frango ! 
Sabbata pango ! 
Lucifer. Aim your lightnings 
At the oaken. 

Massive, iron-studded portals ! 
Sack the house of God, and scatter 
Wide the ashes of the dead ! 

Voices. O, we cannot ! 
The Apostles 

And the Martyrs^ wrapped in man- 
tles. 
Stand as warders at the entrance, 
Stand as sentinels o'erhead ! 

The Bells. 

Excito lentos! 
Dissipo ventos ! 
Paco cruentos ! 

Lucifer. Baffled ! baffled I 
Inefficient, 

Craven spirits ! leave this labor 
Unto Time, the great Destroyer ! 
Come away, ere night is gone ! 

Voices. Onward ! onward ! 
With the night-wind. 
Over field and farm and forest, 
Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, 
Blighting all we breathe upon ! 

( They sweep away. Organ and Gre 
gorian Chant.) 

Choir. 

Nocte surp;entes 
Vi'Tilwinus cmnea 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND 



The castle of Vatiisherg on the Rhijie. 
A chamber in a tower. Prince 
Henry, sitting alone ^ ill and rest- 
less. Midnight. 

Prince Henry. I cannot sleep! my 
fervid brain 
Calls up the vanished Past again,. 
And throws its misty splendors deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 
A breath from that far-distant shore 
Comes freshening ever more and more 
And wafts o'er intervening seas 
Sweet odors from the Hesperides ! 
A wind, that through the corridor 
Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 
And, touching the aeolian strings. 
Faints with the burden that it brings \ 
Come back ! ye friendships long de- 
parted ! 
That hke o'erflowing streamlets started, 
And now are dwindled, one by one, 
To stony channels in the sun ! 
Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are 

ended, 
Corne back, with all that light attended. 
Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away ! 

They come, the shapes of joy and woe. 
The airy crowds of long ago. 



The dreams and fancies known of yore, 
That have been, and shall be no more. 
They change the cloisters of the night 
Into a garden of delight ; 
They make the dark and dreary hours 
Open and blossom into flowers ! 
I would not sleep ! I love to be 
Again in their fair company ; 
But ere my lips can bid them stay. 
They pass and vanish quite away ! 
Alas ! our memories may retrace 
Each circumstance of time and place, 
Season and scene come back again. 
And outward things unchanged remain ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate ; 
Ourselves we cannot re-create, 
Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony t 

Rest ! rest ! O, give me rest and peace ! 
The thought of life that ne'er shall 

cease _ 
Has something in it like despair, 
A weight I am too weak to bear ! 
Sweeter to this afflicted breast 
The thought of never-ending rest \ 
Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 
Tranquillity of endless sleep ! 

(^ Jlash of lightning, out of which 
Lucifer appears, in the garb of a 
travelling Physician) 

Lucifer. All hail, Prince Henry I 



74 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Prince Henry {starting). Who is it 
speaks ? 
Who and what are you ? 

Lucifer. One who seeks 
A moment's audience with the Prince. 

Priyice Henry. When came you in ? 

Lucifer. A moment since. 
I found your study door unlocked, 
And thought you answered when I 
knocked. 

Prince Henry. I did not hear you. 

Lucifer. You heard the thunder; 
It was loud enough to waken the dead. 
And it is not a matter of special wonder 
That, when God is walking overhead, 
You should not hear my feeble tread. 

Prince Henry. What may your wish 
or purpose be ? 

Lucifer. Nothing or everything, as 
It pleases 
Your Highness. You behold in me 
Only a travelling Physician ; 
One of the few who have a mission 
To cure incurable diseases, 
Or those that are called so. 

Prince Henry. Can you bring 
The dead to life ? 

Lucifer. Yes ; very nearly. 
And, what is a wiser and better thing, 
Can keep the living from ever needing 
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, 
By showing conclusively and clearly 
That death is a stupid blunder merely, 
And not a necessity of our lives. 
My being here is accidental ; 
The storm, that against your casement 

drives, 
In the little village below waylaid me. 
And there I heard, with a secret delight, 
Of your maladies physical and mental, 
Which neither astonished nor dismayed 

me. 
And I hastened hither, though late in 

the night 
To proffer my aid ! 

Prince Henry {ironically). For this 
you came ! 
Ah, how can I ever hope to requite 
This honor from one so erudite ? 

Lucifer. The honor is mine, or will 
be when 
I have cured your disease. 

Prince Henry. But not till then. 

Lucifer. What is your illness ? 



Prince Henry. It has no name. 

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, 
As in a kiln, bums in my veins, 
Sending up vapors to the head ; 
My heart has become a dull lagoon. 
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and 

drains ; 
I am accounted as one who is dead. 
And, indeed, I think that I shall be 
soon. 
Lucifer. And has Gordonius the Di- 
vine, 
In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 
I see the book lies open before you, — 
No remedy potent enough to restore 
you? 
Prince Henry. None whatever ! 
Lucifer. The dead are dead, 

And their oracles dumb, when ques- 
tioned 
Of the new diseases that human Hfe 
Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. 
Consult the dead upon things that were, 
But the living only on things that are. 
Have you done this, by the appliance 
And aid of doctors? 

Prince Henry. Ay, whole schools 
Of doctors, with their learned rules; 
But the case is quite beyond their sci- 
ence. 
Even the doctors of Salem 
Send me back word they can discern 
No cure for a malady like this. 
Save one which in its nature is 
Impossible, and cannot be ! 
Lzicifer. That sounds oracular ! 
Prifice Henry. Unendurable ' 

L^icifer. What is their remedy? 
Pri7ice Henry. You shall see ; 

Writ in this scroll is the mystery. 
L ucifer{readi7ig). " Not to be cured, 
yet not incurable ! 
The only remedy that remains 
Is the blood that flows from a maiden's 

veins. 
Who of her own free will shall die. 
And give her life as the price of yours ! " 
That is the strangest of all cures. 
And one, 1 think, you will never try ; 
I'he prescription you may well put by, 
As something impossible to find 
Before the world itself shall end ! 
And yet who knows ? One cannot say 
That mto some maiden's brain that kind 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



75 



Of madness will not find its way. 
Meanwhile permit me to recommend, 
As the matter admits of no delay, 
My wonderful Catholicon, 
Of very subtile and magical powers ! 

Prince He7iry. Purge with your nos- 
trums and drugs infernal 
The spouts and gargoyles of these tow- 
ers, 
Not me. My faith is utterly gone 
In every power but the Power Supernal ! 
Pray tell me, of what school are you ? 

Lucifer. Both of the Old and of the 
New ! 
The school of Hermes Trismegistus, 
Who uttered his oracles sublime 
Before the Olympiads, in the dew 
Of the early dusk and dawn of Time, 
The reign of dateless old Hephaestus ! 
A.S northward, from its Nubian springs. 
The Nile, forever new and old, 
Among the living and the dead, 
Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled ; 
So, starting from its fountain-head 
Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, 
From the dead demigods of eld. 
Through long, unbroken lines of kings 
Its course the sacred art has held, 
Unchecked, unchanged by man's devi- 
ces. 
This art the Arabian Geber taught, 
And in alembics, finely wrought. 
Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered 
The secret that so long had hovered 
Upon the misty verge of Truth, 
The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 
Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! 
Like him, this wondrous lore I teach ! 

Prince Henry. What ! an adept ? 

Lncifer. Nor less, nor more ! 

Prince Henry. I am a reader of 
your books, 
A lover of that mystic lore ! 
With such a piercing glance it looks 
Into great Nature's open eye. 
And sees within it trembling lie 
The portrait of the Deity ! 
And yet, alas ! with all my pains, 
The secret and the mystery 
Have baffled and eluded me. 
Unseen the grand result remains ! 

Lucifer {showing a flask). Behold 
It here I this little flask 
Contains the wonderful quintessence, 



The perfect flower and efflorescence. 
Of all the knowledge man can ask 1 
Hold it up thus against the light ! 

Prince Henry. How limpid, pure, 
and crystalline. 
How quick, and tremulous, and bright 
The little wavelets dance and shine. 
As were it the Water of Life in sooth ! 

Lucifer. It is ! It assuages every 
pain. 
Cures all disease, and gives again 
To age the swift delights of youth. 
Inhale its fragrance. 

Prince Henry. It is sweet. 

A thousand different odors meet 
And mingle in its rare perfume. 
Such as the winds of summer waft 
At open windows through a room ! 

Lucifer. Will you not taste it ? 

Prince Henry. Will one draught 
suffice ? 

Lucifer. If not, you can drink more. 

Prince Henry. Into this crystal gob- 
let pour 
So much as safely I may drink. 

Lucifer ifcmring). Let not the quan- 
tity alarm you ; 
You may drink all ; it will not harm you. 

Prince Henry. I am as one who OB 
the brink 
Of a dark river stands and sees 
The waters flow, the landscape dim 
Around him waver, wheel, and swim, 
And, ere he plunges, stops to think 
Into what whirlpools he may sink ; 
One moment pauses, and no more. 
Then madly plunges from the shore ! 
Headlong into the mysteries 
Of life and death 1 boldly leap. 
Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, 
Nor what in ambush lurks below ! 
For death is better than disease ! 

{An Angel with an ceolian harp 
hovers in the air.) 

A ngel. Woe ! woe ! eternal woe I 
Not only the whispered prayer 
Of love. 

But the imprecations of hate, 
Reverberate 

For ever and ever through the air 
Above ! 

This fearful curse 
Shakes the great universe ! 



76 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 



L%icifer {disappearing). Drink ! 
drink ! 
And thy soul shall sink 
Down into the dark abyss, 
Into the infinite abyss, 
From which no plummet nor rope 
Ever drew up the silver sand of hope ! 

Prince Henry {drinking). It is like 
a draught of fire ! 
Through every vein 
I feel again 

The fever of youth, the soft desire ; 
A rapture that is almost pain 
Throbs in my heart and fills my brain ! 

joy ! O joy ! I feel 
The band of steel 

That so long and heavily has pressed 

Upon my breast 

Uplifted, and the malediction 

Of my affliction 

Is taken from me, and my weary breast 

At length finds rest. 

The Angel. It is but the rest of the 

fire, from which the air has been 

taken ! 
It is but the rest of the sand, when the 

hour-glass is not shaken ! 
It is but the rest of the tide between the 

ebb and the flow ! 
It is but the rest of the wind between 

the flaws that blow 1 
With fiendish laughter, 
Hereafter, 
This false physician 
Will mock thee in thy perdition. 

Prince Henry. Speak ! speak ! 
Who says that I am ill ? 

1 am not ill ! I am not weak ! 

The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er ! 

I feel the chill of death no more ! 

At length, 

I stand renewed in all my strength ! 

Beneath me I can feel 

The great earth stagger and reel, 

As if the feet of a descending God 

Upon its surface trod. 

And like a pebble it rolled beneath his 

heel ! 
This, O brave physician ! this 
Is thy great. Palingenesis ! 

{Drinks again.) 

The Angel. Touch the goblet no 
more I 



It will make thy heart sore 

To its very core I 

Its perfume is the breath 

Of the Angel of Death, 

And the light that within it lies 

Is the flash of his evil eyes. 

Beware ! O, beware ! 

For sickness, sorrow, and care 

All are there ! 

Prince Henry {sinking back). O thou 
voice within my breast ! 

Why entreat me, why upbraid me, 

When the steadfast tongues of truth 

And the flattering hopes of youth 

Have all deceived me and betrayed 
me ? 

Give me, give me rest, O rest ! 

Golden visions wave and hover. 

Golden vapors, waters streaming. 

Landscapes moving, changing, gleam- 
ing ! 

I am like a hapiDy lover 

Who illumines life with dreaming ! 

Brave physician ! Rare physician ! 

Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission 1 

{His head falls on his book.) 

The A ngel {receding). Alas ! alas ! 
Like a vapor the golden vision 
Shall fade and pass. 
And thou wilt find in thy heart again 
Only the blight of pain, 
And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition ! 

Court-yard of the Castle. Hubert 
standing by the gateway. 

Hubert. How sad the grand old cas- 
tle looks ! 
O'erhead, the unmolested rooks 
Upon the turret's windy top 
Sit, talking of the farmer's crop ; 
Here in the court-yard springs the grass, 
So few are now the feet that pass ; 
The stately peacocks, bolder grown. 
Come hopping down the steps of stone, 
As if the castle were their own ; 
And I, the poor old seneschal. 
Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. 
Alas ! the merry guests no more 
Crowd tlucough the hospitable door ; 
No eyes with youth and passion shine, 
No cheeks grow redder than the wine ; 
No song, no laugh, no jovial din 
Of drinking wassail to the pin ; 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



77 



But all is silent, sad, and drear, 
And now the only sounds I hear 
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, 
And horses stamping in their stalls 1 

{A horn sounds.) 

What ho ! that merry, sudden blast 
Reminds me of the days long past ! 
And, as of old resounding, grate 
The heavy hinges of the gate. 
And, clattering loud, with iron clank, 
Down goes the sounding bridge of 

plank, 
/Vs if it were in haste to greet 
The pressure of a traveller's feet ! 

{Enter Walter the Minnesinger^ 

Walter. How now, my friend ! This 
looks quite lonely ! 
No banner flying from the walls, 
No pages and no seneschals. 
No warders, and one porter only ! 
Is it you, Hubert ? 
Hubert. Ah! Master Walter ! 
Walter. Alas ! how forms and faces 
alter ! 
I did not know you. You look older ! 
Your hair has grown much grayer and 

thinner. 
And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! 
Hubert. Alack ! I am a poor old sin- 
ner. 
And, like these towers, begin to mould- 
er ; 
And you have been absent many a 
year ! 
Walter. How is the Prince ? 
Hubert. He is not here ; 

He has been ill : and now has fled. 
Walter. Speak it out frankly: say 
he 's dead ! 
Is it not so? 

Hubert. _ No ; if you please, 

A strange, mysterious disease 
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 
Whole hours together he would stand 
Upon the terrace, in a dream. 
Resting his head upon his hand, 
Best pleased when he was most alone, 
Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone. 
Looking down into a stream. 
In the Round Tower, night after night. 
He sat, and bleared his eyes with 
books : 



Until one morning we found him there 
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon 
He had fallen from his chair. 
We hardly recognized his sweet looks ! 
Walter. Poor Prince ! 
Hubert. I think he might have 

mended ; 
And he did mend ; but very soon 
The priests came flocking in, like rooks. 
With all their crosiers and their crooks, 
And so at last the matter ended. 
Walter. How did it end? 
Hubert. Why, in Saint Rochus 

They made him stand, and wait his 

doom; 
And, as if he were condemned to the 

tomb. 
Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 
First, the Mass for the Dead they 

chanted. 
Then three times laid upon his head 
A shovelful of churchyard clay, 
Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, 
" This is a sign that thou art dead, 
So in thy heart be penitent ! " 
And forth from the chapel door he went 
Into disgrace and banishment. 
Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, 
And bearing a wallet, and a bell. 
Whose sound should be a perpetual 

knell 
To keep all travellers away. 

Walter. O, horrible fate ! Outca*^, 

rejected, 
As one with pestilence infected ! 
Hubert. Then was the family tomb 

unsealed. 
And broken helmet, sword, and shield, 
Buried together in common wreck. 
As is the custom, when the last 
Of any princely house has passed. 
And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, 
A herald shouted down the stair 
The words of warning and despair, — 
" O Hoheneck ! O Hoheneck ! " 
Walter. Still in my soul that cry 

goes on, — 
Forever gone ! forever gone ! 
Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, 
Like a black shadow, would fall across 
The hearts of all, if he should die ! 
His gracious presence upon earth 
Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 
As pleasant songs, at morning sung. 



78 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The words that dropped from his sweet 

tongue 
Strengthened our hearts ; or, heard at 

night, 
Made all our slumbers soft and light. 
Where is he ? 

Hubert. In the Odenwald. 

Some of his tenants, unappalled 
By fear of death, or priestly word, — 
A holy family, that make 
Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 
Have him beneath their watch and 

ward, 
For love of him, and Jesus' sake ! 
Pray you come in. For why should I 
With out-door hospitality 
My prince's friend thus entertain ? 
Walter. I would a moment here re- 
main. 
But you, good Hubert, go before, 
Fill me a goblet of May-drink, 
As aromatic as the May 
From which it steals the breath away, 
And which he loved so well of yore ; 
It is of him that I would think. 
You shall attend me, when I call. 
In the ancestral banquet-hall. 
Unseen companions, guests of air, 
You cannot wait on, will be there ; 
They taste not food, they drink not 

wine. 
But their soft eyes look into mine, 
And their lips speak to me, and all 
The vast and shadowy banquet-hall 
Is full of looks and words divine ! 

{Leaning over the parapet!) 

The day is done ; and slowly from the 

scene 
The stooping sun upgathers his spent 

shafts, 
And puts them back into his golden 

quiver ! 
Below me in the valley, deep and green 
As goblets are, from which in thirsty 

draughts 
We drink its wine, the swift and man- 
tling river 
Flows on triuniphant through these 

lovely regions. 
Etched with the shadows of its sombre 

margent. 
And soft, reflected clouds of gold and 

argent ! 



Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and 

still. 
As when the vanguard of the Roman 

legions 
First saw it from the top of yonder hill ! 
How beautiful it is ! Fresh fields of 

wheat. 
Vineyard, and town, and tower whh 

fluttering flag. 
The consecrated chapel on the crag, 
And the white hamlet gathered round 

its base. 
Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet, 
And looking up at his beloved face ! 
O friend ! O best of friends ! Thy 

absence more 
Than the impending night darkens the 

landscape o'er I 

IL 

A farm in the Odenwald. A garden ; 
■morning; Prince Henry seated^ 
with a book. Elsie, at a distance^ 
gathering flowers. 

Pri.xce Henry {reading). One morn- 
ing, all alone. 
Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer. 
His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest. 
Walked the Monk Felix. All about 
The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, 
Filling the summer air ; 
And within the woodlands as he trod, 
The dusk was like the Truce of God 
With worldly woe and care ; 
Under him lay the golden moss ; 
And above him the boughs of hoary 

trees 
Waved, and made the sign of the cross. 
And whispered their Benedicites ; 
And from the ground 
Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 
Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant 
Vines that wandered. 
Seeking the sunshine, round and rounc^ 

These he heeded not, but pondered 
On the volume in his hand, 
Wherein amazed he read : 
" A thousand years in thy sight 
Are but as yesterday when it is past, 
And as a watch in the night ! " 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



79 



And with his eyes downcast 

In humility he said : 

'' I believe, O Lord, 

What is written in thy Word, 

But alas ! I do not understand ! " 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 

Dropped dowai. 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud. 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ring- 
ing. 

And the Monk Felix closed his book 

And long, long. 

With rapturous look. 

He listened to the song. 

And hardly breathed or stirred, 

Until he saw^, as in a vision. 

The land Elysian, 

And in the heavenly city heard 

Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street. 

And he would fain 

Have caught the wondrous bird, 

But strove in vain ; 

For it flew away, away, 

Far over hill and dell, 

And instead of its sw^eet singing 

He heard the convent bell 

Suddenly in the silence ringing 

For the service of noonday. 

And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in 
haste. 

In the convent there w-as a change ! 

He looked for each well-known face. 

But the faces were new and strange ; 

New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 

New voices chanted in the choir ; 

Yet the place was the same place. 

The same dusky walls 

Of cold, gray stone. 

The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 

A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 

" Forty years," said a Friar, 

*' Have I been Prior 

Of this convent in the wood, 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face ! " 



The heart of the Monk Felix fell : 

And he answered, with submissive tone, 

' ' This morning, after the hour of Prime , 

I left my cell. 

And wandered forth alone, 

Listening all the time 

To the melodious singing 

Of a beautiful white bird, 

Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 

Noon from their noisy towers. 

It was as if I dreamed ; 

For what to me had seemed 

Moments only, had been hours ! " 

"Years ! " said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke. 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall ; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 

Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer, 

The meekest and humblest of his crea- 
tures. 

He remembered well the features 

Of Felix, and he said, 

Speaking distinct and slow ; 

" One hundred years ago. 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of God's 
grace. 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be the 
same." 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day, 

A volume old and brovvTi, 

A huge tome, bound 

In brass and wild-boar's hide, 

Wherein w^ere written down 

The names of all who had died 

In the convent, since it was edified. 

And there they found. 

Just as the old monk said. 

That on a certain day and date, 

One hundred years before. 

Had gone forth fi-om the convent gate^ 

The Monk Felix, and never more 

Had entered that sacred door. 

He had been counted among the dead 

And they knew, at last, 

That, such had been the power 

Of that celestial and immortal song. 



8o 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



A hundred years had passed, 
And had not seemed so long 
As a single hour ! 

(Elsie comes in with flowers^ 

Elsie. Here are flowers for you, 
But they are not all for you. 
Some of them are for the Virgin 
And for Saint Cecilia. 

Prince Henry. As thou standcst 
there, 
Thou seemest to me like the angel 
That brought the immortal roses 
To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. 

Elsie. But these will fade. 

Prince Henry. Themselves will fade, 
But not their memory, 
And memory has the power 
To re-create them from the dust. 
They remind me, too, 
Of martyred Dorothea, 
Who from celestial gardens sent 
Flowers as her witnesses 
To him who scoffed and doubted. 

Elsie. Do you know the story 
Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter? 
That is the prettiest legend of them all. 

Prince Henry. Then tell it to me. 
But first come hither. 
Lay the flowers down beside me, 
And put both thy hands in mine. 
Now tell me the story. 

Elsie. Early in the morning 
The Sultan's daughter 
Walked in her father's garden, 
Gathering the bright flowers. 
All full of dew. 

Prince Henry. Just as thou hast 
been doing 
This morning, dearest Elsie. 

Elsie. And as she gathered them. 
She wondered more and more 
Who was the Master of the Flowers, 
And made them grow 
Out of the cold, dark earth. 
** In my heart," she said, 
*' I love him ; and for him 
Would leave my father's palace. 
To labor in his garden." 

Prince Henry. Dear, innocent child ! 
How sweetly thou recallest 
The long-forgotten legend, 
That in my early childhood 
My mother told me ! 



Upon my brain 

It reappears once more, 

As a birth-mark on the forehead 

When a hand suddenly 

Is laid upon it, and removed ! 

Elsit. And at midnight, 
As she lay upon her bed, 
She heard a voice 
Call to her fi-om the garden, 
And, looking forth from her window, 
She saw a beautiful youth 
Standing among the flowers. 
It was the Lord Jesus ; 
And she went down to him, 
And opened the door for him ; 
And he said to her, " O maiden ! 
Thou hast thought of me with love, 
And for thy sake 
Out of my Father's kingdom 
Have I come hither : 
I am the Master of the Flowers, 
My garden is in Paradise, 
And if thou wilt go with me. 
Thy bridal garland 
Shall be of bright red flowers." 
And then he took from his finger 
A golden ring. 

And asked the Sultan's daughter 
If she would be his bride. 
And when she answered him with love, 
His wounds began to bleed. 
And she said to him, 
" O Love ! how red thy heart is. 
And thy hands are full of roses." 
" For thy sake," answered he, 
" For thy sake is my heart so red. 
For thee I bring these roses ; 
I gathered them at the cross 
Whereon I died for thee ! 
Come, for my Father calls. 
Thou art my elected bride ! " 
And the Sultan's daughter 
Followed him to his Father's garden. 

Prince Henry. Wouldst thou have 
done so, Elsie? 

Elsie. Yes, very gladly. 

Prince Henry. Then the Celestial 
Bridegroom 
Will come for thee also. 
Upon thy forehead he will place, 
Not his crown of thorns, 
But a crown of roses. 
In thy bridal chamber. 
Like Saint Cecilia, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



8] 



Thou shalt hear sweet music, 
And breathe the fragrance 
Of flowers immortal ! 
Go now and place these flowers 
Before her picture. 

A room in the farm-house. Twilight. 
Ursula spijining. Gottlieb asleep 
in his chair. 

Ursula. Darker and darker ! Hard- 
ly a glimmer 
Of light comes in at the window-pane ; 
Or is it my eyes are growing dim- 
mer? 
I cannot disentangle this skein, 
Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. 
Elsie ! 

Gottlieb (^starting). The stopping of 
thy wheel 
Has wakened me out of a pleasant 

dream. 
I thought I was sitting beside a stream. 
And heard the grinding of a mill, 
When suddenly the wheels stood still. 
And a voice cried " Elsie " in my ear ! 
It startled me, it seemed so near. 
Ursula. I was calling her : I want 
a light. 
I cannot see to spin my flax. 
Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear? 
Elsie {within). In a moment ! 
Gottlieb. Where are Bertha and 

Max? 
Ursula. They arc sitting with Elsie 
at the door. 
She is telling them stories of the wood, 
And the Wolf, and little Red Riding- 
hood. 
Gottlieb. And where is the Prince? 
Ursula. In his room overhead ; 

I heard him walking across the floor, 
As he always does, with a heavy tread. 

%hSiK comes in with a lamp. Max 
and 'Qkrtha. follow her; and they 
all sing tJie Evening Song 07t tJie 
lighting of the lamps.) 

EVENING SONG. 

O gladsome light 
Of the Father Immortal, 
And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour ! 
6 



Now to the sunset 
Again hast thou brought us ; 
And, seeing the evenmg 
Twilight, we bless thee. 
Praise thee, adore thee ! 

Father omnipotent ! 
Son, the Life-giver ! 
Spirit, the Comforter ! 
Worthy at all times 
Of worship and wonder ! 

Prince Henry {at the door). Amen ! 
Ursula. Who was it said Amen ? 
Elsie. It w^as the Prince : he stood 
at the door. 
And listened a moment, as we chanted 
The evening song. He is gone again. 
I have often seen him there before. 
Ursrda. Poor Prince ! 
Gottlieb. I thought the house was 
haunted ! 
Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild 
And patient as the gentlest child ! 
Max. I love him because he is so 
good, 
And makes me such fine bows and ar- 
rows, 
To shoot at the robins and the spar- 
rows, 
And the red squirrels in the wood ! 
Bertha. I love him, too ! 
Gottlieb. Ah, yes ! we all 

Love him, from the bottom of our 

hearts ; 
He gave us the farm, the house, and the 

grange, 
He gave us the horses and the carts, 
And the great oxen in the stall. 
The vineyard, and the forest range ! 
We have nothing to give him but our 
love ! 
Bertha. Did he give us the beautiful 
stork above 
On the chimney-top, with its large, 
round nest ? 
Gottlieb. No, not the stork ; by God 
in heaven, 
As a blessing, the dear white stork was 

given. 

But the Prince has given us all the rest. 

God bless him, and make him well again. 

Elsie. Would I could do something 

for his sake, 

Something to cure his sorrow and pain ! 



82 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Gottlieb. That no one can ; neither 
thou nor I, 
Nor any one else. 

Elsie. And must he die ? 

Ursula. Yes ; if the dear God does 
not take 
Pity upon him, in his distress, 
And work a miracle ! 

Gottlieb. Or unless 

Some maiden, of her own accord, 
Offers her life for that of her lord, 
And is willing to die in his stead. 

Elsie. I will ! 

Ursula. Prithee, thou foolish child, 
be still ! 
Thou shouldst not say what thou dost 
not mean ! 

Elsie. I mean it truly ! 

Max. O father ! this morning, 

Down by the mill, in the ravine, 
Hans killed a wolf, the very same 
That in the night to the sheepfold came. 
And ate up my lamb, that was left out- 
side. 

Gottlieb. I am glad he is dead. It 
will be a warning 
To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. 

Max. And I am going to have his 
hide ! 

Bertha. I wonder if this is the wolf 
that ate 
Little Red Ridinghood ! 

Ursida. O no ! 

That wolf was killed a long while ago. 
Come, children, it is growing late. 

Max. Ah, how I wish I were a man. 
As stout as Hans is, and as strong ! 
I would do nothing else, the whole day 

long. 
But just kill wolves. 

Gottlieb. Then go to bed, 

And grow as fast as a little boy can. 
Bertha is half asleep already. 
See how she nods her heavy head. 
And her sleepy feet are so unsteady 
She will hardly be able to creep up stairs. 

Ursula. Good night, my children. 
Here 's the light. 
And do not forget to say your prayers 
Before you sleep. 

Gottlieb. Good night ! 

Max and Bertha. Good night ! 

{They go otit with Elsie.) 



Ursula {spinning). She is a Strang* 

and wayward child, 
That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, 
And thoughts and fancies weird and wild 
Seem of late to have taken hold 
Of her heart, that was once so docile 

and mild ! 
Gottlieb. She is like all girls. 
Ursula. Ah no, forsooth ! 

Unlike all I have ever seen. 
For she has visions and strange dreamt, 
And in all her words and ways, she 

seems 
Much older than she is in truth. 
Who would think her but fifteen ? 
And there has been of late such a 

change ! 
My heart is heavy with fear and doubt 
That she may not live till the year is 

out. 
She is so strange, — so strange, — so 

strange ! 
Gottlieb. I am not troubled with any 

such fear ; 
She will live and thrive for many a year. 

Elsie's chamber. Night. Elsie 
praying. 

Elsie. My Redeemer and my Lord, 
I beseech thee, I entreat thee, 
Guide me in each act and word. 
That hereafter I may meet thee. 
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, 
With my lamp well trimmed and burn 
ing! 

Interceding 

With these bleeding 

Wounds upon thy hands and side, 

For all who have lived and erred 

Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, 

Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, 

And in the grave hast thou been buried ! 

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 

O my Saviour, I beseech thee, 

Even as thou hast died for me. 

More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedcst, 

Die, if dying I may give 

Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly. 

Dying thus, resemble thee ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



83 



The chamber of Gottlieb and Ur- 
sula. Midnight. Elsie standitig 
by their bedside^ weeping. 

Gottlieb. The wind is roaring ; the 
rushing rain 
Is loud upon roof and window-pane, 
As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, 
Boding evil to me and mine, 
Were abroad to-night with his ghostly- 
train ! 
In the brief lulls of the tempest wild. 
The dogs howl in the yard ; and hark ! 
Some one is sobbing in the dark, 
Here in the chamber ! 
Elsie. It is I. 

Urstila. Elsie ! what ails thee, my 

poor chiM? 
Elsie. I am disturbed and much dis- 
tressed, 
In thinking our dear Prince must die ; 
I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 
Gottlieb. What wouldst thou? In 
the Power Divine 
His healing lies, not in our own ; 
It is in tlie hand of God alone. 

Elsie. Nay, he has put it into mine, 
And into my heart ! 

Gottlieb. Thy words are wild ! 

Ursula. What dost thou mean ? my 

child ! my child ! 
Elsie. That for our dear Prince 
Henr>''s sake 
I will myself the offering make, 
And give my life to purchase his. 

Ursula. Am I still dreaming, or 
awake ? 
Thou speakest carelessly of death, 
And yet thou knowest not what it is. 
Elsie. 'T is the cessation of our 
breath. 
Silent and motionless we lie ; 
And no one knoweth more than this. 
I saw our little Gertrude die ; 
She left off breathing, and no more 
I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. 
She was more beautiful than before. 
Like violets faded were her eyes ; 
By this we knew that she was dead. 
Through the open window looked the 

skies 
Into the chamber where she lay, 
A-nd the wind was like the sound of 
wings, 



As if angels came to bear her away. 
Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, 
I found it difficult to stay ; 
I longed to die, as she had died. 
And go forth with her, side by side. 
The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead. 
And Mary, and our Lord ; and I 
Would follow in humility 
The way by them illumined ! 

Ursula. My child ! my child ! thou 
must not die ! 

Elsie. Why should I live? Do I 
not know 
The life of woman is fiill of woe ? 
Toiling on and on and on. 
With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, 
And silent lips, and in the soul 
The secret longings that arise, 
Which this world never satisfies ! 
Some more, some less, but of the whole 
Not one quite happy, no, not one ! 

Ursula. It is the malediction of Eve I 

Elsie. In place of it, let me receive 
The benediction of Mary, then. 

Gottlieb. Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe 
is me ! 
Most wretched am I among men ! 

Ursula. Alas ! that I should live to 
see 
Thy death, beloved, and to stand 
Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! 

Elsie. Thou wilt not see it. I shall 
lie 
Beneath the flowers of another land. 
For at Salerno, far away 
Over the mountains, over the sea, 
It is appointed me to die ! 
And it will seem no more to thee 
Than if at the village on market-day 
I should a little longer stay 
Than I am wont. 

Ursula. Even as thou sayest ! 

And how my heart beats, when thou 

stayest ! • 
I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied with seeing thee. 
What, then, if thou wert dead? 

Gottlieb. Ah me'. 

Of our old eyes thou art the hght ! 
The joy of our old hearts art thou ! 
And wilt thou die ? 

Ursula. _ Not now ! not now ' 

Elsie. Christ died for me, and shall 
not I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Be willing for my Prince to die ? 

You both are silent ; you cannot speak. 

This said I at our Saviour's feast 

After confession, to the priest, 

And even he made no reply. 

Does he not warn us all to seek 

The happier, better land on high, 

Where flowers immortal never wither ; 

And could he forbid me to go thither? 
Gottlieb. In God's own time, my 
heart's delight ! 

When he shall call thee, not before ! 
Elsie. I heard him call. When 
Christ ascended 

Triumphantly, from star to star, 

He left the gates of heaven ajar, 

I had a vision in the night. 

And saw him standing at the door 

Of his Father's mansion, vast and splen- 
did, 

And beckoning to me from afar. 

I cannot stay ! 

Gottlieb. She speaks almost 

As if it were the Holy Ghost 

Spake through her lips, and in her 
stead ! 

What if this were of God ? 

Ursula. Ah, then 

Gainsay it dare we not. 

Gottlieb. Amen ! 

Elsie ! the words that thou hast said 

Are strange and new for us to hear, 

And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. 

Whether it be a dark temptation 

Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration. 

We in our blindness cannot say. 

We must think upon it, and pray ; 

For evil and good it both resembles. 

If it be of God, his will be done ! 

May he guard us from the Evil One ! 

How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! 

Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 

Ursula. Kiss me. Good night ; and 
do not weep ! 

(Elsie goes out.) 

Ah, what an awful thing is this ! 

I almost shuddered at her kiss. 

As if a ghost had touched my cheek, 

I am so childish and so weak ! 

As soon as I see the earliest gray 

Of morning glimmer in the east, 

I will go over to the priest. 

And hear what the good man has to sa^ ' 



A village church. A woman kneeling 
at the confessional. 
The Parish Priest {from within). 

Go, sin no more ! Thy penance 

o'er, 
A new and better life begin ! 
God maketh thee forever free 
From the dominion of thy sin ! 
Go, sin no more ! He will restore 
The peace that filled thy heart before, 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 

{The woman goes out. The Priest 
comes forth, a7id walks slowly up 
and down the church.) 

blessed Lord ! how much I need 
Thy light to guide me on my way ! 
So many hands, that, without heed. 
Still touch thy wounds, and make them 

bleed ! 
So many feet, that, day by day. 
Still wander fi-om thy fold astray ! 
Unless thou fill me with thy light, 

1 cannot lead thy flock aright ; 
Nor, without thy support, can bear 
The burden of so great a care, 
But am myself a castaway ! 

{A pause.) 
The day is drawing to its close : 
And what good deeds, since first it rose, 
Have I presented. Lord, to thee. 
As offerings of my ministry? 
What wrong repressed, what right main- 
tained, 
What struggle passed, what victory 

gained. 
What good attempted and attained? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! 
I see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies forever in the light. 
And yet forever and forever, 
When seeming just within my grasp, 
I feel my feeble hands unclasp, 
And sink discouraged into night ! 
For thine own purpose, thou hast sent 
The strife and the discouragement ! 

{A patise.) 

Why staj'est thou. Prince of Hoheneck* 
Why keep me pacing to and fro 
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, 
Counting my footsteps as I go. 
And marking with each step a tomb 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



85 



Why should the world for thee make 

room, 
And wait thy leisure and thy beck? 
Thou comest in the hope to hear 
Some word of comfort and of cheer. 
What can I say ? I cannot give 
The counsel to do this and live ; 
But rather, firmly to deny^ 
The tempter, though his power be 

strong, ^ 
And, inaccessible to wrong. 
Still like a martyr live and die ! 

{A paused 

The evening air grows dusk and brown ; 

I must go forth into the town. 

To visit beds of pain and death, 

Of restless limbs, and quivering breath. 

And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes 

That see, through tears, the sun go 

down. 
But nevermore shall see it rise. 
The poor in body and estate, 
The sick and the disconsolate. 
Must not on man's convenience wait. 

{Goes Old.) 

^EnterhuciFER, as a Priest.) 

Lucifer {with a genuflexion., mock- 
ing). This is the Black Pater- 
noster. 

God was my foster, 

He fostered me 

Under the book of the Palm-tree ! 

St. Michael was my dame. 

He was bom at Bethlehem, 

He was made of flesh and blood. 

God send me my right food. 

My right food, and shelter too. 

That I may to yon kirk go, 

To read upon yon sweet book 

Which the mighty God of heaven 
shook. 

Open, open, hell's gates ! 

Shut, shut, heaven's gates ! 

All the devils in the air 

The stronger be, that hear the Black 
Prayer ! 

{Looking round the church.) 
What a darksome and dismal place ! 
I wonder that any man has the face 
To call such a hole the House of the 
Lord, 



And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such is 

the word. 
Ceiling, and walls, and windows old. 
Covered with cobwebs, blackened with 

mould ; 
Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs. 
Dust on the benches, and stalls, and 

chairs ! 
The pulpit, from which such ponder- 
ous sermons 
Have fallen down on the brains of the 

Germans, 
With about as much real edification 
As if a great Bible, bound in lead, 
Had fallen, and struck them on the 

head ; 
And I ought to remember that sensa- 
tion ! 
Here stands the holy-water stoup ! 
Holy-water it may be to many. 
But to me, the veriest Liquor Ge- 

hennse ! 
It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! 
Near it stands the box for the poor ; 
With its iron padlock, safe and sure. 
I and the priest of the parish know 
Whither all these charities go ; 
Therefore, to keep up the institution, 
I will add my little contribution ! 

{He ptds in money.) 
Underneath this mouldering tomb, 
With statue of stone, and scutcheon of 

brass. 
Slumbers a great lord of the village. 
All his life was riot and pillage. 
But at length, to escape the threatened 

doom 
Of the everlasting, penal fire. 
He died in the dress of a mendicant 

friar. 
And bartered his wealth for a daily 

mass. 
But all that afterwards came to pass, 
And whether he finds it dull or pleas- 
ant. 
Is kept a secret for the present. 
At his own particular desire. 

And here, in a comer of the wall, 
Shadowy, silent, apart from all. 
With its awful portal open wide. 
And its latticed windows on either side. 
And its step well worn by the bended 
knees 



86 



THE GOLDEN LEGEXD. 



Of one or two pious centuries, 
Stands the village confessional ! 
Within it, as an honored guest, 
I will sit me down awhile and rest ! 

{Seats hi?nself in the coyifessional.) 
Here sits the priest ; and faint and low, 
Like the sighing of an evening breeze. 
Comes through these painted lattices 
The ceaseless sound of human woe ; 
Here, while her bosom aches and 

throbs 
With deep and agonizing sobs, 
That half are passion, half contrition. 
The luckless daughter of perdition 
Slowly confesses her secret shame ! 
The time, the place, the lover's name ! 
Here the grim murderer, with a groan, 
From his bruised conscience rolls the 

stone. 
Thinking that thus he can atone 
For ravages of sword and flame ! 
Indeed, I marvel, and mar\-el greatly, 
How a priest can sit here so sedately, 
Reading, the whole year out and in. 
Naught but the catalogue of sin, 
And still keep any faith whatever 
In human virtue ! Never I never ! 

I cannot repeat a thousandth part. 
Of the horrors and crimes and sins and 

woes 
That arise, when with palpitating 

throes 
The graveyard in the human heart 
Gives up its dead, at the voice of the 

priest, 
As if he were an archangel, at least. 
It makes a peculiar atmosphere, 
This odor of earthly passions and 

crimes, 
Such as I like to breathe, at times. 
And such as often brings me here 
In the hottest and most pestilential 

season. 
To-day, I come for another reason ; 
To foster and ripen an evil thought 
In a heart that is almost to madness 

wrought, 
And to make a murderer out of a prince, 
A sleight of hand I learned long since ! 
He comes. In the twilight he will not see 
The difference between his priest and 

me ! 
In the same net was the mother caught I 



Prince Henry {enteritig and kneel- 
ifig- at the con/essional). Re- 
morseful, penitent, and lowly, 
I come to crave, O Father holy. 
Thy benediction on my head. 
Lucifer. The benediction shall ba 
said 
After confession, not before ! 
'T is a God-speed to the parting guest. 
Who stands already at the door. 
Sandalled with holiness, and dressed 
In garments pure from eanhly stain. 
Meanwhile, hast thou searched well 

thy breast ? 
Does the same madness fill thy brain ? 
Or have thy passion and unrest 
Vanished forever fi-om thy mind ? 
Prince Henry. By the same mad- 
ness still made blind. 
By the same passion still possessed, 
I come again to the house of prayer, 
A man afflicted and distressed ! 
As in a cloudy atmosphere, 
Through unseen sluices of the air, 
A sudden and impetuous wind 
Strikes the great forest white with fear. 
And ever\' branch, and bough, and 

spray 
Points all its quivering leaves one way, 
And meadows of grass, and fields of 

grain, 
And the clouds above, and the slanting 

rain, 
And smoke fi-om chimneys of the to\Mi, 
Yield themselves to it, and bow down, 
So does this dreadful purpose press 
Onward, with irresistible stress, 
And all my thoughts and faculties, 
Struck level by the strength of this, 
From their true inclination turn, 
And all stream forward to Salem ! 
Lucifer. Alas 1 we are but eddies of 
dust. 
Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 
Along the highway of the world 
A moment only, then to fall 
Back to a common level all. 
At the subsiding of the gust ! 

Prince Henry. O holy Father ! par- 
don in me 
The oscillation of a mind 
Unsteadfast, and that cannot find 
Its centre of rest and harmony I 
Forevermore before mine eves 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



87 



This ghastly phantom flits and flies, 
And as a madman through a crowd, 
With frantic gestures and wild cries, 
It hurries onward, and aloud 
Repeats its awful prophecies ! 
Weakness is wretchedness ! To be 

strong 
Is to be happy ! I am weak, 
And cannot find the good I seek, 
Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 
Luc^er. Be not alarmed ! The 
Church is kind, 
And in her mercy and her meekness 
She meets half-way her children's weak- 
ness. 
Writes their transgressions in the dust ! 
Though in the Decalogue we find 
The mandate written, " Thou shalt lot 

kill ! " 
Yet there are cases when we must. 
In war, for instance, or from scathe 
To guard and keep the one true Faith ! 
We must look at the Decalogue in the 

light 
Of an ancient statute, that was meant 
For a mild and general application, 
To be understood wdth the reservation, 
That, in certain instances, the Right 
Must yield to the Expedient ! 
Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, 
What hearts and hopes would prostrate 

He ! 
What noble deeds, what fair renown, 
Into the grave wdth thee go down ! 
What acts of valor and courtesy 
Remain undone, and die with thee ! 
Thou art the last of all thy race ! 
With thee a noble name expires. 
And vanishes fi-om the earth's face 
The glorious memory of thy sires ! 
She is a peasant. In her veins 
Flows common and plebeian blood ; 
It is such as daily and hourly stains 
The dust and the turf of battle plains, 
By vassals shed, in a crimson flood. 
Without reserve, and without reward. 
At the slightest summons of their lord ! 
But thineis precious; the fore-appointed 
Blood of kings, of God's anointed ! 
Moreover, what has the w'orld in store 
For one like her, but tears and toil ? 
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, 
A peasant's child and a peasant's wife. 
And her soul within her sick and sore 



With the roughness and barrenness of 

life! 
I marvel not at the heart's recoil 
From afate like this, in one so tender, 
Nor at its eagerness to surrender 
All the wretchedness, w^ant, and w'Oe 
That await it in this w-orld below, 
For the unutterable splendor 
Of the world of rest beyond the skies. 
So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : 
Therefore inhale this healing balm, 
And breathe this fresh life into thine ; 
Accept the comfort and the calm 
She offers, as a gift divine ; 
Let her fall down and anoint thy feet 
With the ointment costly and most sweet 
Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. 
Prince Henry. And will the right- 
eous Heaven forgive? 
No action, whether foul or fair, 
Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere 
A record, written by fingers ghostly, 
As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 
In the greater weakness or greater 

strength 
Of the acts which follow it, till at length 
The wrongs of ages are redressed. 
And the justice of God made manifest ! 
Lucifer. In ancient records it is 

stated 
That, whenever an evil deed is done, 
Another devil is created 
To scourge and torment the offending 

one ! 
But evil is only good perverted, 
And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, 
But an angel fallen and deserted. 
Thrust from his Father's house with a 

curse 
Into the black and endless night. 
Prince ^ Henry. If justice rules the 

universe, 
From the good actions of good men 
Angels of light should be begotten. 
And thus the balance restored again. 
Lucifer. Yes ; if the world were not 

so rotten. 
And so given over to the Devil ! 

Prince Henry. But this deed, is it 

good or evil ? 
Have I thine absolution free 
To do it, and without restriction ? 
Lucifer. Ay ; and from whatsoever 

sin 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Lieth around it and within, 

From all crimes in which it may involve 

thee, 
I now release thee and absolve thee ! 
Prince Henry. Give me thy holy 

benediction. 

' Lucifer {^stretching forth his hand 
and 7mUtering). 

Maledictione perpetua 
Maledicat vos 
Pater etemus ! 

The A ngel {with the ceolian harf). 

Take heed ! take heed ! 
Noble art thou in thy birth, 
By the good and the great of earth 
Hast thou been taught ! 
Be noble in every thought 
And in every deed ! 
Let not the illusion of thy senses 
Betray thee to deadly offences. 
Be strong I be good I be pure ! 
The right only shall endure, 
All things else are but false pretences. 
I entreat thee, I implore, 
Listen no more 

To the suggestions of an evil spirit, 
That even now is there, 
Making the foul seem fair. 
And selfishness itself a virtue and a 

merit I 

A roo7n in tJie far7n-house. 
Gottlieb. It is decided ! For many 
days. 
And nights as many, we have had 
A nameless terror in our breast, 
Making us timid, and afraid 
Of God, and his mysterious ways ! 
We have been sorrowful and sad ; 
Much have we suffered, much have 

prayed 
That he would lead us as is best. 
And show us what his will required. 
It is decided ; and we give 
Our child, O Prince, that you may live ! 
Ursula. It is of God. He has in- 
spired 
This purpose in her ; and through pain. 
Out of a world of sin and woe, 
He takes her to himself again. 
The mother's heart resists no longer ; 
With the Angei of the Lord in vain 
It wrestled, for he was the stronger. 



Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long 
ago 
His son unto the Lord, and even 
The Everlasting Father in heaven 
Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, 
So do I offer up my daughter i 

(Ursula hides Jierface.) 

Elsie. My life is little. 
Only a cup of water. 
But pure and limpid. 
Take it, O my Prince ! 
Let it refresh you, 
Let it restore you. 
It is given willingly, 
It is given freely ; 
May God bless the gift ! 

Pri-pue Henry. And the giver ! 

Gottlieb. Amen ! 

Pri7ice He7iry. I accept it ! 

Gottlieb. Where are the children ? 

Ursula. They are already asleep. 

Gottlieb. What if they were dead ? 

1 71 the garden. 

Elsie. I have one thing to ask of 

you. 
PriTice Henry. What is it ? 

It is already granted. 

Elsie. Promise me. 

When we are gone from here, and on 

our way 
Are journeying to Salerno, you will 

not. 
By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade 

me 
And turn me from ray purpose ; but 

remember 
That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 
Walks unmolested, and with thoughts 

of pardon 
Occupied wholly, so would I approach 
The gates of Heaven, in this great 

jubilee. 
With my petition, putting off from me 
All thoughts of earth, as shoes from of} 

my feet. 
Promise me this. 
Prince Henry. Thy words fall fi-om 

thy lips 
Like roses from the lips of Angelo ; 

and angels 
Might stoop to pick them up ! 

Elsie. Will you not promise? 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Prince Henry. If ever we depart 
upon this journey, 
So long to one or both of us, I promise. 
Elsie. Shall we not go, then ? Have 
you lifted me 
Into the air, only to hurl me back 
Wounded upon the ground? and of- 
fered me 
The waters of eternal life, to bid me 
Drink the polluted puddles of this world? 
Prince Henry. O Elsie ! what a 
lesson thou dost teach me ! 
The life which is, and that which is to 

come. 
Suspended hang in such nice equipoise 
A breath disturbs the balance ; and 

that scale 
In which we throw our hearts prepon- 
derates. 
And the other, like an empty one, fliesup, 
And is accounted vanity and air ! 
To me the thought of death is terrible. 
Having such hold on life. To thee it 

is not 
So much even as the lifting of a latch ; 
Only a step into the open air 
Out of a tent already luminous 
With light that shines through its trans- 
parent walls ! 
O pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust 

shall grow 
Lilies, upon whose petals will be written 
"Ave Maria" in characters of gold ! 

III. 

A street in Strashurg. Night. 
Prince Henry wandering alone, 
wrapped in a cloak. 

Prince Henry. Still is the night. 
The sound of feet 
Has died away from the empty street. 
And like an artisan, bending down 
His head on his anvil, the dark town 
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 
Sleepless and restless, I alone, 
In the dusk and damp of these walls of 

stone, 
Wander and weep in my remorse ! 
Crier of the Dead {ringing a bell). 
Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 



Prijtce Henry. Hark ! with what 
accents loud and hoarse 
This warder on the walls of death 
Sends forth the challenge of his breath \ 
I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! 
They rise up and their garments wave, 
Dimly and spectral, as they rise. 
With the light of another world in their 
eyes ! 

Crier of the Dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Why for the dead, 

who are at rest ? 
Pray for the living, in whose breast 
The struggle between right and wrong 
Is raging terrible and strong. 
As when good angels war with devils ! 
This is the Master of the Revels, 
Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes 
The healthofabsent friends, and pledges, 
Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, 
And tinkling as we touch their edges, 
But with his dismal, tinkling bell. 
That mocks and mimics their funeral 

knell ! 

Crier of the Dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Wake not, beloved ' 

be thy sleep 
Silent as night is, and as deep ! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate 
Whose heart is heavy and desolate, 
And the heavings of whose boson. 

number 
The respirations of thy slumber. 
As if some strange, mysterious fate 
Had linked two hearts in one, and mine 
Went madly wheeling about thine, 
Only with wider and wilder sweep ! 

Crier of the Dead {at a distance). 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead 1 



90 



THE GOLDEN LEGEXD. 



Prince Henry. Lo ! with what 

depth of blackness thrown 
Against the clouds, far up the skies 
The walls of the cathedral rise, 
Like a mysterious grove of stone, 
With fitful lights and shadows blending, 
As from behind, the moon, ascending, 
Lightsits dim aisles and pathsunknown I 
The wind is rising ; but the boughs 
Rise not and fall not with the wind 
That thro' their foliage sobs and soughs ; 
Only the cloudy rack behind, 
Drifting onward, wild and ragged, 
Gives to each spire and buttress jagged 
A seeming motion undefined. 
Below on the square, an armed knight, 
Still as a statue and as white. 
Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams 

quiver 
Upon the points of his armor bright 
As on the ripples of a river. 
He lifts the visor from his cheek. 
And beckons, and makes as he would 

speak. 
Walter the Minnesinger. Friend I 

can you tell me where alight 
Thuringia's horsemen for the night ? 
For I have lingered in the rear. 
And wander vainly up and down. 
Pri7ice He7iry. I am a stranger in 

the town. 
As thou art ; but the voice I hear 
Is not a stranger to mine ear. 
Thou art Walter of the Vogehveid ! 
Walter. Thou hast guessed rightly ; 

and thy name 
Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 
Prince He7iry. Ay, the same. 

Walter {ejubracing hint). Come 

closer, closer to my side ! 
What brings thee hither ? What potent 

charm 
Has drawn thee from thy German farm 
Into the old Alsatian city? 
PriTice He7iry. A tale of wonder and 

of pity ! 
A wTetched man, almost by stealth 
Dragging my body to Salem, 
In the vain hope and search for health. 
And destined never to return. 
Already thou hast heard the rest. 
But what brings thee, thus armed and 

dight 
In the equipments of a knight ? 



Walter. Dost thou not see upon my 
breast 
The cross of the Crusaders shine ? 
My pathway leads to Palestine. 
Prince He?iry. Ah, would that way 
were also mine ! 

noble poet ! thou whose heart 
Is like a nest of singing-birds 
Rocked on the topmost bough of life, 
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 
And in the clangor of the strife 
Mingle the music of thy words ? 

Walter. My hopes are high, my 
heart is proud, 
And like a trumpet long and loud. 
Thither my thoughts all clang and ring ! 
My life is in my hand, and lo ! 

1 grasp and bend it as a bow, 

And shoot forth from its trembling string 
An arrow, that shall be, perchance. 
Like the arrow of the Israelite king 
Shot fi-om the window toward the east, 
That of the Lord's deliverance I 

Prince Henry. My life, alas ! is what 
thou seest ! 

enviable fate I to be 

Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee 
With lyre and sword, with song and 

steel ; 
A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! 
Thy heart, thy hand, thy hTe, thy sword. 
Thou givest all unto thy Lord ; 
While I, so mean and abject gro\s-n, 
Am thinking of myself alone. 

Walter. Be patient : Time will rein- 
state 
Thy health and fortunes. 

Prince Henry. 'T is too late ! 

1 cannot strive against my fate ! 

Walter. Come ^^•ith me ; for my 

steed is weary ; 
Our journey has been long and dreary, 
And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 
With his impatient hoofs the flints. 
Prince Henry {aside). I am ashamed, 

in my disgrace. 
To look into that noble face ! 
To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 

Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn ol 

day, 
I shall again be on my way. 
Come with me to the hostelry, 
For I have many things to say. 
Our journey into Italy 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



91 



Perchance together we may make ; 
Wilt thou not do it for my sake ? 

Prince Henry. A sick man's pace 
would but impede 
Thine eager and impatient speed. 
Besides, my pathway leads me round 
To Hirschau, in the forest's bound, 
Where I assemble man and steed, 
And all things for my journey's need. 

{They go out.) 

Lticiferijlyingover the city). Sleep, 
sleep, O city ! till the light 
Wake you to sin and crime again, 
Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, 
I scatter downward through the night 
My maledictions dark and deep. 
1 have more martyrs in your walls 
Than God has ; and they cannot sleep ; 
They are my bondsmen and my thralls ; 
Their wretched lives are full of pain, 
Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; 
And every heart-beat, every breath, 
Is a convulsion worse than death ! 
Sleep, sleep, O city ! though within 
The circuit of your walls there be 
No habitation free from sin, 
And all its nameless misery ; 
The aching heart, the aching head, 
Grief for the living and the dead. 
And foul corruption of the time, 
Disease, distress, and w^ant, and woe. 
And crimes, and passions that may grow 
Until they ripen into crime ! 

Square in front of the Cathedral. 
Easter Sunday. Friar Cuthbert 
preaching to the croivdfront a pulpit 
in the open air. Prince Henry 
and Elsie crossing the sq^iare. 

Prince Henry. This is the day, 
w^hen from the dead 
Our Lord arose ; and everywhere, 
Out of their darkness and despair, 
Triumphant over fears and foes. 
The hearts of his disciples rose, 
When to the women, standing near. 
The Angel in shining vesture said, 
"The Lord is risen ; he is not here ! " 
And, mindful that the day is come. 
On all the hearths in Christendom 
The fires are quenched, to be again 
Rekindled from the sun, that high 
Is dancirg in the cloudless sky. 



The churches are all decked with flow- 
ers, 
The salutations among men 
Are but the Angel's v^-ords divine, 
" Christ is arisen ! " and the bells 
Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, 
And chant together in their towers. 
All hearts are glad ; and free from care 
The faces of the people shine. 
See what a crowd is in the square, 
Gayly and gallantly arrayed ! 
Elsie. Let us go back ; I am afi^aid ! 
Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount 

the church-steps here. 
Under the doorway's sacred shadow ; 
We can see all things, and be freer 
From the crowd that madly heaves and 

presses ! 
Elsie. What a gay pageant ! what 

bright dresses ! 
It looks like a flower-besprinkled 

meadow^ 
What is that yonder on the square ? 
Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open 

air. 
And a Friar, who is preaching to the 

crowd 
In a voice so deep and clear and loud, 
That, if we listen, and give heed. 
His lowest w ords will reach the ear. 
Friar Cuthbert {gesticulating and 

cracking a postilion's whip). 

What ho ! good people ! do you 

not hear? 
Dashing along at the top of his speed. 
Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, 
A courier comes with words of cheer. 
Courier ! what is the news, I pray ? 
" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come 



you 



From court. 



Then I do not believe it ; you say it in 
sport. 

{Cracks his whip again.) 
Ah, here comes another, riding this 

way ; 
We soon shall know what he has to 

Courier ! what are the tidings to-day ? 
"Christ is arisen!" Whence come 

you? " From town." 
Then I do not believe it ; aw-ay with 

you, clowai. 
{Cracks his whip more violently.) 



92 



THE GOLDEX LEGEXD. 



And here comes a third, who is spur- 
ring amain ; 

What news do vou bring, with your 
loose-hanging rein, 

Your spurs wet with blood, and your 
bridle with foam? 

" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come 



you; 



From Rome. 



Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. 
Ride on with the news, at the top of 
your speed ! 

{Great applatise among tJie crowd.) 

To come back to my text ! When the 

news was first spread 
That Christ was arisen indeed from the 

dead, 
Very great was the joy of the angels in 

heaven ; 
And as great the dispute as to who 

should carry 
The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mar>-, 
Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. 
Old Father Adam was first to propose, 
As being the author of all our woes ; 
But he was refused, for fear, said they, 
He would stop to eat apples on the way ! 
Abel came next, but petitioned in vain. 
Because he might meet with his brother 

Cain ! 
Noah, too, was refused, lest his weak- 
ness for wine 
Should delay him at ever>- lavem-sign : 
And John the Baptist could not get a 

vote, 
On account of his old-fashioned camel's- 

hair coat ; 
And the Penitent Thief, who died on 

the cross. 
Was reminded that all his bones were 

broken ! 
Till at last, when each in turn had 

spoken, 
The company being still at a loss. 
The Angel, who rolled away the stone, 
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, 
And filled with glor\' that gloomy prison. 
And said to the Virgin, "The Lord is 

arisen ! " 

{The Cathedral bells ring.) 

But hark ! the bells are beginning to 

chime ; 
And I feel that I am gro\%-ing hoarse. 



I will put an end to my discourse, 
And leave the rest for some other time. 
For the bells themselves are the best 

of preachers ; 
Their brazen lips are learned teachers. 
From their pulpits of stone, in the 

upper air, 
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, 
Shriller than trumpets under the Law, 
Now a sermon and now a prayer. 
1 he clangorous hammer is the tongue, 
This way, that way, beaten and swung, 
That from mouth of brass, as from 

Mouth of Gold, 
May be taught the Testaments, New 

and Old. 
And above it the great cross-beam of 

wood 
Representeth the Holy Rood, 
Upon which, like the bell, our hopes 

are hung. 
And the wheel wherewith it is swayed 

and rung 
Is the mind of man, that round and round 
Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound ! 
And the rope, with its twisted cordage 

three, 
Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 
Of Morals, and Symbols, and Histor\' ; 
And the upward and downward mo- 
tions show 
That we touch upon matters high and 

low ; 
And the constant change and transmu- 
tation 
Of action and of conte:np'ation. 
Downward, the Scripture brought from 

on high, 
L'pward, exalted again to the sky ; 
Downward, the literal interpretation, 
Upward, the Vision and Myster}' I 

And now, my hearers, to make an end, 
I have only one word more to say ; 
In the church, in honor of Easter day, 
Will be represented a Miracle Play ; 
And I hope you will all have the grace 

to attend. 
Chirst bring us at last to his felicity ! 
Pax vobiscum I et Benedicite ! 
In tJie CatJiedral. 
Chant. 
Kyrie Eleison ! 
Christe Eleison I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



93 



Elsie. I am at home here in my 
Father's house ! 

These paintings of the Saints upon the 
walls 

Have all familiar and benignant faces. 
Prince Henry. The portraits of the 
family of God ! 

Thine own hereafter shall be placed 
among them. 
Elsie. How verv' grand it is and 
wonderful ! 

Never have I beheld a church so splen- 
did ! 

Such columns, and such arches, and 
such windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the chap- 
els, 

And under them so many confessionals. 

They must be for the rich. I should 
not like 

To tell my sins in such a church as this. 

Who built it ? 

Prince Henry. A great master of his 
craft, 

Erwin von Steinbach ; but not he alone, 

For many generations labored with him. 

Children that came to see these Saints 
in stone. 

As day by day out of the blocks they 
rose, 

Grew old and died, and still the work 
went on, 

And on, and on, and is not yetcompleted. 

The generation that succeeds our own 

Perhaps may finish it. The architect 

Built his great heart into these sculp- 
tured stones. 

And with him toiled his children, and 
their lives _ 

Were builded, with his own, into the 
walls. 

As offerings unto God. You see that 
statue 

Fixing its joyous, but deep-wTrinkled 
eyes 

Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. 

That is the image of the master, carved 

By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. 
Elsie. How beautiful is the column 

that he looks at ! 
Prince Henry. That, too, she sculp- 
tured. At the base of it 

Stand the Evangelists ; above their 
heads 



Four Angels blowing upon marble 
trumpets, 

And over them the blessed Christ, sur- 
rounded 

By his attendant ministers, upholding 

The instruments of his passion. 

Elsie. O my Lord I 

Would I could leave behind me upon 
earth 

Some monument to thv glory, such as 
this ! 
Pri7tce Henry. A greater monument 
than this thou leavest 

In thine own life, all purity and love ! 

See, too, the Rose, above the western 
portal 

Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous 
colors. 

The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness ! 
Elsie. And, in the gallery-, the long 
line of statues, 

Christ with his twelve Apostles watch- 
ing us ! 

{^A Bishop in armor, hooted afid 
spurred, passes with his train.) 

Prijice Henry. But come away ; we 
have not time to look. 
The crowd already fills the church, and 

yonder 
Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, 
Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims 
The ]Mystery that will now be repre- 
sented. 



THE NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 

INTROITUS. 

PrcBco. Come, good people, all and 
each. 
Come and listen to our speech I 
In your presence here I stand. 
With a trumpet in my hand, 
To announce the Easter Play, 
Which we represent to-day ! 
First of all we shall rehearse. 
In our action and our verse, 
The Nati\-ity of our Lord, 
As written in the old record 
Of the Protevangelion, 
So that he who reads may run ! 
{Blows his trumpet. ^ 



94 



THE GOLDEX LEGEXD. 



I. HEAVEN. 

Mercy {at tJie feet of God). Have 
pity, Lord ! be not afraid 
To save mankind, whom thou hast 

made, 
Nor let the souls that were betrayed 
Perish eternally ! 
Justice. It cannot be, it must not be ! 
When in the garden placed by thee, 
The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die ! 
Mercy. Have pity, Lord ! let peni- 
tence 
Atone for disobedience, 
Nor let the fruit of man's offence 
Be endless misery ! 
Jtistice. What penitence proportion- 
ate 
Can e'er be felt for sin so great ? 
Of the forbidden fruit he ate, 
And damned must he be ! 
God. He shall be saved, if that wnthin 
The bounds of earth one free from sin 
Be found, who for his kith and kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 
The Four I'irtues. Lord I we have 
searched the world around. 
From centre to the utmost bound, 
But no such mortal can be found ; 
Despairing, back we come. 
Wisdom. No mortal, but a God 
made man. 
Can ever carr\- out this plan, 
Achieving what none other can. 
Salvation unto all ! 
God. Go. then, O my beloved Son ! 
It can by thee alone be done ; 
By thee the \'ictory shall be won 
O'er Satan and the Fall ! 

{Here the Angel Gabriel shall leave 
Paradise and Jiy towards the earth ; 
the jaws of Hell open be low, and the 
Devils walk aboiit^ making a great 
noise.) 

II. MARY AT THE WELL. 

Mary. Along the garden walk, and 
thence 
Through the wicket in the garden fence, 

I steal with quiet pace. 
My pitcher at the well to fill. 
That lies so deep and cool and still 
In this sequestered place. 



These sycamores keep guard around ; 
I see no face, I hear no sound, 

Save bubblings of the spring, 
And my companions, who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin, 
And at their labor sing. 
The Angel Gabriel. Hail, Virgin 
Mar}-, fiill of grace ! 

{Here M.ary looketh around her, trefH- 
bling, and then saith :) 

Mary. Who is it speaketh in this 
place, 
With such a gentle voice ? 
Gabriel. The Lord of heaven is with 
thee now ! 
Blessed among all women thou. 
Who art his holy choice ! 
Mary {setting dhwn the pitcher^ 
What can this mean ? No one 
is near. 
And yet, such sacred words I hear, 
I almost fear ro stay. 

{Here the Angel appearing to her^ 
sliall say :) 

Gabriel. Fear not, O Mary ! but 
believe ! 
For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this ver>- day. 

Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky 
The majesty of the Most High 
Shsdl overshadow thee ! 

Mary. Behold the handmaid of the 
Lord ! 
According to thy holy word, 
So be it unto me I 

{Here the Devils shall again make a 
great noise ^ under the stage. ) 

III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEN^TIN PLAN- 
ETS, BE.\RING THE STAR OF BETH- 
LEHEM. 

The Angels. The Angels of the 
Planets Seven, 
Across the shining fields of heaven 

The natal star we bring I 
Dropping our sevenfold \-irtues down, 
As priceless jewels in the crown 
Of Christ, our new-bom King. 
Raphael. I am the Angel of the 
Sun, 
Whose flaming wheels began to run 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



95 



When God's almighty breath 
Said to the darkness and the Night, 
Let there be light ! and there was light ! 
I bring the gift of faith. 
Gabriel. I am the Angel of the 
Moon, 
Darkened, to be rekindled soon 

Beneath the azure cope ! 
Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight way. 
I bring the gift of Hope ! 
Anael. The Angel of the Star of 
Love, 
The Evening Star, that shines above 

The place where lovers be, 
Above all happy hearths and homes, 
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, 
I give him Charity ! 
Zobiachel. The Planet Jupiter is 
mine ! 
The mightiest star of all that shine, 

Except the sun alone ! 
He is the High Priest of the Dove, 
^nd sends, from his great throne above. 
Justice, that shall atone ! 
Michael. The Planet Mercury, 
whose place 
Is nearest to the sun in space, 

Is my allotted sphere ! 
And with celestial ardor sw^ft 
I bear upon my hands the gift 
Of heavenly Prudence here ! 
Uriel. I am the Minister of Mars, 
The strongest star among the stars ! 

My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man's life, 
And for the suffering and the strife, 
I give him Fortitude ! 
Orifel. The Angel of the uttermost 
Of all the shining, heavenly host, 

From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space 
I bring the last, the crowning grace. 
The gift of Temperance ! 

(A sudden light shines from the win- 
doivs of the stable in the village be- 
low.) 

IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. 

The stable of the Inn. The Virgin 
and Child. Three Gypsy Kings, 
Caspar, Melchior, <i«^ Belshaz- 
ZAR, shall come in. 



Caspar. Hail to thee, Jesus of Naz- 
areth ! 
Though in a manger thou draw breath, 
Thou art greater than Life and Death, 

Greater than Joy or Woe ! 
This cross upon the line of life 
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, 
And through a region with peril rife 
In darkness shalt thou go ! 
Melchior. Hail to thee. King of 
Jerusalem ! 
Though humbly bom in Bethlehem, 
A sceptre and a diadem 

Await thy brow and hand ! 
The sceptre is a simple reed, 
The crown will make thy temples bleed. 
And in thy hour of greatest need. 
Abashed thy subjects stand ! 
Belshazzar. Hail to thee, Christ of 
Christendom ! 
O'er all the earth thy kingdom come ! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 

Thy name shall men adore ! 
Peace and good-will among all men. 
The Virgin has returned again. 
Returned the old Saturnian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 
The Child Christ. Jesus, the Son 
of God, am I, 
Bom here to suffer and to die 
According to the prophecy. 
That other men may live ! 
The Virgin. And now these clothes, 
that wTapped him, take 
And keep them precious, for his sake ; 
Our benediction thus we make, 
Naught else have we to give. 

{She gives them, swaddling- clothe s^ 
and they depart.) 

V. the FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

{Here shall Joseph com.e in., leading 
an ass, on which are seated Mary 
and the Child.) 

Mary. Here will we rest us, underthese 
O'erhanging branches of the trees. 
Where robins chant their Litanies 
And canticles of joy. 
Joseph. My saddle-girths have given 
w^ay 
With trudging through the heat to-day ; 
To you I think it is but play 
To ride and hold the boy. 



96 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Mary. Hark ! how the robins shout 
and sing, 
As if to hail their infant King ! 
I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 
Joseph. And I will hobble well the 
^ss, 
Lest, being loose upon the grass, 
He should escape ; for, by the mass, 
He 's nimble as a goat. 

{Here Mary shall alight and go to the 
spring.) 
Mary. O Joseph ! I am much afraid, 
For men are sleeping in the shade ; 
I fear that we shall be waylaid, 

And robbed and beaten sore ! 
{Here a band of robbers shall be seen 
sleeping, two of 'who?n shall rise and 
come fo rwa rd. ) 
Dumachus. Cock's soul ! deliver up 

your gold ! 
Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your 
hold ! 
You see that I am weak and old, 
Of wealth I have no store. 
Dumachtis. Give up your money ! 
Titus. Prithee cease. 

Let these good people go in peace. 
Dumachus. First let them pay for 
their release. 
And then go on their way. 
Tittis. These forty groats I give in fee. 
If thou wilt only silent be. 
Mary. May God be merciful to thee. 

Upon the Judgment Day ! 
Jesus. When thirty years shall have 
gone by, 
I at Jerusalem shall die. 
By Jewish hands exalted high 

On the accursed tree. 
Then on my right and my left side, 
These thieves shall both be crucified, 
And Titus thenceforth shall abide 

In paradise with me. 
{Here a great rtimor of trumpets and 
horses., like tlie 7ioise of a kijig with 
his army, and the robbers shall take 

flight:) 

VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNO- 
CENTS. 

Ki7ig Herod. Potz-tausend I Him- 
mel-sacrament I 



Filled am I with great wonderment 

At this unwelcome news ! 

Am I not Herod? Who shall dare 

My cro\\-n to take, my sceptre bear, 

As king among the Jews ? 

{Here he shall stride up ajid down and 

flourish his sword.) 
What ho ! I fain would drink a can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan ! 

The wine of Helbon bring 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 
As red as blood, as hot as fire. 

And fit for any king ! 

{He quaffs great goblets of wine.) 
Now at the window will I stand. 
While in the street the armed band 

The little children slay : 
The babe just bom in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with them, 

Nor live another day ! 

{Here a voice of lamentation shall be 
heard i?i the street.) 

Rachel. O wicked king ! O cruel 
speed ! 
To do this most unrighteous deed ! 
My children all are slain : 
Herod. Ho, seneschal ! another cup ! 
With wine of Sorek fill it up ! 
I would a bumper drain ! 
Rahab. May maledictions fall and 
blast 
Thyself and lineage, to the last 
' Of all thy kith and kin ! 
Herod. Anothergoblet ! quick ! and 
stir 
Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh 
And calamus therein ! 
Soldiers {in the street). Give up thy 
child into our hands ! 
It is King Herod who commands 
That he should thus be slain ! 
The N7irse Medusa. O monstrous 
men ! What have ye done ! 
It is King Herod's only son 

That ye have cleft in twain ! 
Herod. Ah, luckless day ! What 
words of fear 
Are these that smite upon my ear 

With such a doleful sound ! 
What torments rack my heart and head ! 
Would I were dead ! would 1 were dead, 
And buried in the ground ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



97 



[He /alls down and writhes as though 
eaten by worms. Hell opens., and 
Satan and Astaroth come forth, 
and drag him down.) 

VII. JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOL- 
MATES. 

JesMs. The shower is over. Let us 
play, 
And make some sparrows out of clay, 
Down by the river's side. 
Judas. See, how the stream has over- 
flowed 
Its banks, and o'er the meadow road 
Is spreading far and wide I 

( They draw water out of the river by 
channels., and form little pools. Je- 
sus makes twelve sparrows of clay, 
and the other boys do the sa7ne.) 

Jesus. Look ! look ! how prettily I 
make 
These little sparrows by the lake 

Bend down their necks and drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and soar 
So far, they shall return no more 
Unto this river's brink. 
Judas. That canst thou not ! They 
are but clay. 
They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands ! 
Jesus. Fly, fly ! ye sparrows ! you 
are free ! 
And while you live, remember me 
Who made you with my hands. 

{Here Jesus shall clap his hands, and 
the sparrows shall fly away, chir- 
ruping.) 

Judas. Thou art a sorcerer, I know ; 
Oft has my mother told me so, 
I will not play with thee ! 

{He strikes Jesus on the right side.) 

Jesus. Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote 
my side, 
And when I shall be crucified, 
There shall I pierced be ! 

[Here Joseph shall come in, and say :) 

Joseph. Ye wicked boys ! why do ye 
play. 
And break the holy Sabbath day ? 
What, think ye, will your mothers say 
7 



To see you in such plight ! 
In such a sweat and such a heat, 
With all that mud upon your feet ! 
There 's not a beggar in the street 

Makes such a sorry sight ! 

VIII. THE village SCHOOL. 

{The Rabbi Ben Israel, with a long 
beard, sitting on a high stool, with 
a rod in his hand.) 

Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, 
Throughout this village known full well, 
And, as my scholars all will tell, 

Learned in things divine ; 
The Cabala and Talmud hoar 
Than all the prophets prize I more, 
For water is all Bible lore, 

But Mishna is strong wine. 

My fame extends from West to East, 
And always, at the Purim feast, 
I am as drunk as any beast, 

That wallows in his sty ; 
The wine it so elateth me, 
That I no difference can see 
Between " Accursed Haman be ! " 

And " Blessed be Mordecai ! " 

Come hither, Judas Iscariot ; 
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 
From the Rabbinical Book or not. 
Why howl the dogs at night ? 
Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it 
saith 
The dogs howl, when with icy breath 
Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, 
Takes through the town his flight ! 
Rabbi. Well, boy ! now say, if thou 
art wise. 
When the Angel of Death, who is full 

of eyes. 
Comes where a sick man dying lies. 
What doth he to the wight ? 
Judas. He stands beside him, dark 
and tall, 
Holding a sword, from which doth fall 
Into his mouth a drop of gall, 
And so he turneth white. 
Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to 
me 
What the great Voices Four may be.. 
That quite across the world do flee. 
And are not heard by men ? 
Judas. The Voice of the Sun in 
heaven's dome. 



9S 



THE GOLDEX LEGEXD. 



The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, 
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home. 
And the Angel of the Rain ! 
Rabbi. Right are thine answers ev- 
ery one I 
Now httie Jesus, the carpenter's son, 
Let us see how thy- task is done. 
Canst thou thy letters say ? 
yesus. Aleph. 

Rabbi. What next ? Do not stop yet ! 
Go on with all the alphabet. 
Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ? 
Cock's soul I thou'dst rather play I 
jesus. What Aleph means I fain 
would know, 
Before I any further go ! 
Rabbi, O, by Saint Peter ! wouldst 
thou so ? 
Come hither, boy, to me. 
As surely as the letter Jod 
Once cried aloud, and spake to God, 
So surely shalt thou feel this rod, 
And punished shalt thou be ! 
I/ere Rabbi Ben Israel sAai/ lift up 
his rod to strike Jesus, and his right 
arm shall be paralyzed.) 

IX. crowned with flowers. 
(Jesus sitting among his playmates 
croivned ivith flo^wers as their King.) 

Boys. We spread our garments on 
the ground ! 
With fragrant flowers thy head is 

crowned. 
While like a guard we stand around. 

And hail thee as our King I 
Thou art the new King of the Jews ! 
Nor let the passers-by refuse 
To bring that homage which men use 
To majesty to bring. 

{Here a traveller shall go by, and the 
boys shall lay held of his garments 
and say :) 



Boys. Come hither I and all rever- 
ence pay 
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day ! 
Then go rejoicing on your way. 
In all prosperity 1 
Traveller. Hail to the King of 
Bethlehem, 
Who weareth in his diadem 
The yellow crocus for the gem 
Of his authority I 

{He passes by ; and others come in, 
bearing on a litter a sick child.) 

Boys. Set down the litter and draw 

near ! 
The King of Bethlehem is here ! 
What ails the child, who seems to fear 
That we shall do him harm? 
The Bearers. He climbed up to the 
robin's nest. 
And out there darted, from his rest, 
A serpent with a crimson crest. 
And stung him in the arm. 
yesus. Bring him to me, and let me 
feel 
The wounded place ; my touch can heal 
The sting of serpents, and can steal 
The poison from the bite ! 

{He touches the "wound., and the boy 
begins to cry. ) 

Cease to lament ! I can foresee 
That thou hereafter known shalt be 
Among the men who follow me, 
As Simon the Canaanite ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In the after part of the day 

Will be represented another play. 

Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, 

Beginning directly after Nones I 

At the close of which we shall accord. 

By way of benison and reward. 

The sight of a holy Martjxs bones ! 



IV. 



The road to Hirschau. 



Prince Henry and Elsie, 'mith their attendants, on 

h/yrseback. 

Elsie. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently 
bearing 
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring I 

Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, 
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual ^-ail, as of souls in pam. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 99 

Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with 
the stigma 
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. 
Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what 
may betide ; 
Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side ? 
Elsie. All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creak- 
ing wain 
Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain. 
Prince Henry. Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs 
with the landlord's daughter, 
While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water, 
Elsie. All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul 
wdth love ; 
Even the low^est may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. 
Prince He7iry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the 
highway ends, 
And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. 

Elsie. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat ; 
The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses' feet. 
{They turn down a green lane.) 
Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for 
miles below 
Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. 

Prince Henry. 0\Qr our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill ; 
We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. 
Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook bv 
our side ! 
What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide ? 
Pri7ice He7iry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva ; well have I known 
these scenes of old. 
Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and 
the wold. 
Elsie. Hark ! fi-om the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing 
for rain ! 
Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. 
Prince He^iry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a 
little cloud. 
That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. 

{They pass 07i.) 
The Co7tve7ii of Hirschau in the Black For m}' part, I am well content 



Forest. The Co7ive7it cellar. Friar 
Claus C077ies i7L with a light and a 
basket of e77ipty flag07is. 
Friar Clans. I always enter this 
sacred place 
With a thoughtful, solemn, and rever- 
ent pace, 
Pausing long enough on each stair 
To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, 
And a benediction on the vines 
That produce these various sorts of 
wnnes ! 



That we have got through with the 

tedious Lent ! 
Fasting is all ver>^ well for those 
Who have to contend with invisible 

foes ; 
But I am quite sure it does not agree 
With a quiet, peaceable man like me, 
Who am not of that ner^'ous and meagre 

kind 
That are always distressed in body and 

mind ! 
And at times it really does me good 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



To come down among this brotherhood, 
DwelHng forever under ground, 
Silent, contemplative, round and sound; 
Each one old, and brown with mould, 
But filled to the lips with the ardor of 

youth. 
With the latent power and love of truth. 
And with virtues fervent and manifold. 

I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, 
When buds are swelling on every side. 
And the sap begins to move in the vine, 
Then in all cellars, far and wide, 
The oldest, as well as the newest, wine 
Begins to stir itself, and ferment. 
With a kind of revolt and discontent 
At being so long in darkness pent. 
And fain would burst from its sombre 

tun 
To bask on the hillside in the sun ; 
As in the bosom of us poor friars. 
The tumult of half-subdued desires 
For the world that we have left behind 
Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! 
And now that we have lived through 

Lent, 
My duty it is, as often before. 
To open awhile the prison-door, 
And give these restless spirits vent. 

Now here is a cask that stands alone. 
And has stood a hundred years or 

more, 
Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, 
Trailing and sweeping along the floor, 
Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, 
Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, 
Till his beard has grown through the 

table of stone ! 
It is of the quick and not of the dead ! 
In its veins the blood is hot and red, 
And a heart still beats in those ribs of 

oak 
That time may have tamed, but has not 

broke ! 
It comes from Bacharach on the 

Rhine, 
Is one of the three best kinds of wine. 
And costs some hundred florins the 

ohm ; 
But that I do not consider dear,- 
When I remember that every year 
Four butts are sent to the Pope of 

Rome. 
And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, 



The old rhyme keeps running in my 
brain : 
At Bacharach on the Rhine, 
At Hochheim on the Main, 
And at Wiirzburg on the Stein, 
Grow the three best kinds of wine I 

They are all good wines, and better 

far 
Than those of the Neckar, or those of 

the Ahr. 
In particular, Wiirzburg well may 

boast 
Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, 
Which of all wines I like the most. 
This I shall draw for the Abbot's 

drinking. 
Who seems to be much of my way of 

thinking. 

{^Fills a flagon. ) 

Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and 
sings ! 

What a delicious fragrance springs 

From the deep flagon, while it fills, 

As of hyacinths and daffodils ! 

Between this cask and the Abbot's lips 

Many have been the sips and slips ; 

Many have been the draughts of wine. 

On their way to his, that have stopped 
at mine ; 

And many a time my soul has hankered 

For a deep draught out of his silver 
tankard. 

When it should have been busy with 
other affairs. 

Less with its longings and more with 
its prayers. 

But now there is no such awkward con- 
dition. 

No danger of death and eternal perdi- 
tion ; 

So here 's to the Abbot and Brothers 
all, 

Who dwell in this convent of Peter and 
Paul! 

{He drinks.) 

O cordial delicious ! O soother of 

pain ! 
It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! 
A benison rest on the Bishop who sends 
Such a fudder of wine as this to his 

friends ! 
And now a flagon for such as may ask 



THE GOLD EX LEGEXD. 



A draught from the noble Bacharach 
cask, 

And I will be gone, though I know full 
well 

The cellar's a cheerfuller place than 
the cell. 

Behold where he stands, all sound and 
good, 

Brown and old in his oaken hood , 

Silent he seems externally 

As any Carthusian monk may be ; 

But within, what a spirit of deep un- 
rest ! 

What a seething and simmering in his 
breast ! 

As if the heaving of his great heart 

Would burst his belt of oak apart ! 

Let me unloose this button of wood, 

And quiet a little his turbulent mood. 

{Sets it rimning.) 

See ! how its currents gleam and shine, 
As if they had caught the purple hues 
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, 
Descending and mingling with the 

dews ; 
Or as if the grapes were stained with 

the blood 
Of the innocent boy, who, some years 

back. 
Was taken and crucified by the Jews, 
In that ancient tovsTi of Bacharach ; 
Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 
In that ancient to\\Ti of Bacharach ! 
The beautiful town, that gives us wine 
With the fragrant odor of Muscadine I 
I should deem it wrong to let this pass 
W^ithout first touching my lips to the 

glass, 
For here in the midst of the current I 

stand. 
Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the 

river, 
Taking toll upon either hand. 
And much more grateful to the giver. 

{He drinks.^ 

Here, now, is a ven- inferior kind. 
Such as in any town you may find, 
Such as one might imagine would suit 
The rascal who drank wine out of a 

boot. 
And, after all, it was not a crime, 
For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffelsheim. 



A jolly old toper ! \vho at a pull 
Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, 
And ask with a laugh, when that was 

done. 
If the fellow had left the other one ! 
This wine is as good as we can afford 
To the friars, who sit at the lower board, 
And cannot distinguish bad from good. 
And are far better off than if they could, 
Being rather the rude disciples of beet 
Than of anything more refined and dear ! 

{Fills the other Jlagon and departs.) 

The Scriptorium. Friar Pacificus 
trajiscribing and ilhaninating. 

Friar Pacifia<s. It is growing dark ! 
Yet one line more, 
And then my work for to-day is o'er. 
I come again to the name of the Lord ! 
Ere I that awful name record, 
That is spoken so lightly among men, 
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen ; 
Pure from blemish and blot must it be 
When it writes that word of mystery ! 

Thus have I labored on and on, 

Nearly through the Gospel of John. 

Can it be that from the lips 

Of this same gentle Evangelist, 

That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, 

Came the dread Apocalypse ! 

It has a ver>- awful look, 

As it stands there at the end of the book, 

Like the sun in an eclipse. 

Ah me ! when I think of that ^-ision 

I divine, 

I Think of wTiting it, line by line, 

I I stand in awe of the terrible curse, 

j Like the trump of doom, in the closing 

I verse ! 

j God forgive me I if ever I 

I Take aught from the book of that 
Prophecy, 
Lest my part too should be taken away 
From the Book of Life on the Judg- 
ment Day. 

This is well written, though I say it ! 
I should not be afraid to display it. 
In open day, on the selfsame shelf 
With the writings of St. Thecla herself 
Or of Theodosius, who of old 
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! 
That goodly folio standing yonder, 
Without a single blot or blunder, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



^Vould not bear away the palm from 

mine, 
If we should compare them line for line. 

There, now, is an initial letter ! 
Saint Ulric himself never made a better ! 
Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 
Dow-n to the eyes on the peacock's tail ! 
And now, as I turn the volume over, 
And see what lies between cover and 

cover, 
What treasures of art these pages hold. 
All ablaze with crimson and gold, 
God forgive me ! I seem to feel 
A certain satisfaction steal 
Into my heart, and into my brain, 
As if my talent had not lain 
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. 
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, 
Here is a copy of thy Word, 
Written out with much toil and pain ; 
Take it, O Lord, and let it be 
As something I have done for thee ! 

{He looks from the window.^ 

How sweet the air is ! How fair the 

scene ! 
I wish I had as lovely a green 
To paint my landscapes and my leaves ! 
How the swallows twitter under the 

eaves ! 
There, now, there is one in her nest ; 
I can just catch a glimpse of her head 

and breast, 
And will sketch her thus, in her quiet 

nook. 
For the margin of my Gospel book. 

{He makes a sketch.) 

I can see no more. Through the val- 
ley yonder 
A shower is passing ; I hear the thun- 
der 
Mutter its curses in the air, 
The Devil's owti and only prayer ! 
The dusty road is brown with rain. 
And, speeding on with might and main, 
Hitherward rides a gallant train. 
They do not parley, they cannot wait. 
But hurry in at the convent gate. 
What a fair lady ! and beside her 
What a handsome, graceful, noble 

rider ! 
Now she gives him her hand to alight ; 
They will beg a shelter for the night. 



I will go down to the corridor. 
And try to see that face once more ; 
It will do for the face of some beautiful 

Saint, 
Or for one of the Maries I shall pahit. 

{Goes out.) 

The Cloisters. The Abbot Ernes 
TUS pacuig to and fro. 

A bbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall 
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade 
Evening damps begin to fall, 
Evening shadows are displayed. 
Round me, o'er me, everywhere, 
All the sky is grand with clouds, 
And athwart the evening air 
Wheel the swallows home in crowdsi. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 
Paint the dusky windows red ; 
Darker shadows, deeper rest, 
Underneath and overhead. 
Darker, darker, and more wan, 
In my breast the shadows fall ; 
Upward steals the life of man, 
As the sunshine from the wall. 
From the wall into the sky, 
From the roof along the spire ; 
Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 

{Enter Prince Henry.) 

Prince Henry. Christ is arisen ! 
Abbot. Amen ! he is arisen ! 

His peace be with you ! 
Prince Henry. Here it reigns for- 
ever ! 
The peace of God, that passeth under- 
standing, 
Reigns in these cloisters and these 

corridors. 
Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the con- 
vent? 
Abbot. I am. 

Prince Henry. And I Prince Hen- 
ry of Hoheneck, 
Who crave your hospitality to-night. 
Abbot. You are thrice welcome to 
our humble walls. 
You do us honor ; and we shall requite 

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you 
With Paschal eggs, and our poor con- 
vent wine, 
The remnants of our Easter holidays. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



103 



Prince Henry. How fares it with ( 
the holy monks of Hirschau ? 
A.re all things well with them ? 
Abbot. All things are well. 

Prince Henry. A noble convent ! I 
have known it long 
By the report of travellers. I now see 
Their commendations lag behind the 

truth. 
You lie here in the valley of the Nagold 
As in a nest : and the still river, gliding 
Along its bed, is like an admonition 
How all things pass. Your lands are 

rich and ample, 
And your revenues large. God'sbene- 

diction 
Rests on your convent. 

Abbot. By our charities 

We strive to merit it. Our Lord and 

2^1 aster, 
When he departed, left us in his will, 
As our best legacy on earth, the poor ! 
These we have always with us ; had 

we not, 
Our hearts would gi'ow as hard as are 
these stones. 
Prince Henry. If I remember right, 
the Counts of Calva 
Founded your convent. 
A bbot. Even as you say. 

Prince Henry. And, if I err not, it 

is very old. 
Abbot. Within these cloisters lie al- 
ready buried 
Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the 

flags 
On which we stand, the Abbot William 

lies, 
Of blessed memor3^ 

Pri^ice Henry. And whose tomb is 
that, 
Which bears the brass escutcheon ? 

Abbot. A benefactor's, 

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood 
Godfather to our bells. 
Prince Henry. Your monks are 
learned 
And holy men, I trust. 

A bbot. There are among them 

Learned and holy men. Yet in this age 
We need another Hildebrand, to shake 
And purih' us like a mighty wind. 
The world is wicked, and sometimes I 
wonder 



God does not lose his patience with it 

whollv, 
And shatter it like glass ! Even here, 

at times, 
Within these walls, where all should 

be at peace, 
I have my trials. Time has laid his 

hand 
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 
But as a harper lays his open palm 
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. 
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness 
And weariness of life, that makes me 

ready 
To say to the dead Abbots under us, 
" Make room for me ! " Only I see 

the dusk 
Of evening twilight coming, and have 

not 
Completed half my task ; and so at 

times 
The thought of mv shortcomings in this 

life 
Falls like a shadow on the life to come. 
Pri7ice Henry. We must all die, and 

not the old alone ; 
The young have no exemption from 

that doom. 
Abbot. Ah, yes ! the young may die, 

but the old must ! 
That is the difference. 

Prince Hetiry. I have heard much 

laud 
Of 3^our transcribers. Your Scriptorium 
Is famous among all ; your manuscripts 
Praised for their beauty and their ex- 
cellence. 
Abbot. That is indeed our boast. 

If you desire it. 
You shall behold these treasures. And 

meanwhile 
Shall the Refectorarius bestow 
Your horses and attendants for the 

night, 
{They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.) 
The Chapel. Vespers; after which 
the 77zonks retire, a chorister lead- 
ing a7i old monk who is blind. 
Prince Henry. They are all gone. 

save one who lingers. 
Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. 
As if his heart could find no rest, 



104 



THE GOLDEX LEGEND. 



At times he beats his heaving breast 
With clenched and con\-ulsive fingers. 
Then hfts them trembhng in the air. 
A chorister, with golden hair, 
Guides hithervsard his hea\y pace. 
Can it be so ? Or does my sight 
Deceive me in the uncertain light ? 
Ah no ! I recognize that face, 
Though Time has touched it in his 

flight, 
And changed the auburn hair to white- 
It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 
The deadliest foe of all our race, 
And hatefiil unto me and mine I 

The Blitid Monk. Who is it that 

doth stand so near 
His whispered words I almost hear ? 
Prince Henry. I am Prince Henrj' 

of Hoheneck, 
And you, Coimt Hugo of the Rhine ! 
I know you, and I see the scar. 
The brand upon your forehead, shine 
And redden like a baleful star I 

TJie Blind Motik. Count Hugo once, 

but now the wreck 
Of what I was. O Hoheneck ! 
The passionate will, the pride, the wrath 
That bore me headlong on my path, 
Srambled and staggered into fear, 
And failed me in my mad career. 
As a tired steed some e\-il-doer, 
Alone upon a desolate moor. 
Bewildered, lost, desened, blind. 
And hearing loud and close behind 
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. 
Then suddenly fi-om the dark there 

came 
A voice that called me by my name, 
And said to me, " Kneel down and 

pray I '' 
And so ray terror passed away. 
Passed utterly away forever. 
Contrition, penitence, remorse, 
Came on me, with o'erwhelming force ; 
A hope, a longing, an endeavor, 
By days of penance and nights of prayer. 
To frustrate and defeat despair ! 
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart. 
With tranquil waters overflowed ; 
A lake whose unseen fountains start. 
Where once the hot volcano glowed. 
And you, O Prince of Hoheneck : 
Have known me in that earlier time, 
A man of violence and crime, 



Whose passions brooked no curb nor 

check. 
Behold me now, in gentler mood. 
One of this holy brotherhood. 
Give me your hand ; here let me kneel ; 
Make your reproaches sharp as steel ; 
Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek ; 
No violence can harm the meek, 
There is no wound Christ cannot heal ! 
Yes ; lift your princely hand, and take 
Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek ; 
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake ! 
Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo ! 

let there be 
No further strife nor enmity 
Betw een us t%vain ; we both have erred ! 
Too rash in act, too wroth in word. 
From the beginning have we stood 
In fierce, denant attitude. 
Each thoughtless of the others right. 
And each reliant on his might. 
But now our souls are more subdued ; 
The hand of God, and not in vain. 
Has touched us with the fire of pain. 
Let us kneel down, and side by side 
Pray, till our souls are purified. 
And pardon will not be denied ! 

{They ktieel.) 

The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks 
at midnight. Lucifer disguised as 
a Friar. 

Friar Paul {sings). 
Ave ! color vini clan, 
Dulcis potus, non aman, 
Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris p>otentia ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, 
my wonhy fi-eres. 
You 'U disturb the Abbot at his prayers. 

Friar Paul (sings). 
O ! quam placens in colore ! 
O ! quam fi-agrans in odore ! 
O ! quam sapidum in ore ! 
Dulce linguae \-inculum ! 
Friar Cuthbert. I should think youi 
tongue had broken its chain ! 

Friar Paul (sings). 
Felix venter quem intrabis 1 
Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 
Felix OS quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Friar Ctithhert. Peace ! I say, peace ! 
Will you nev^er cease ! 
You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell 



you agam 



Friar John. No danger ! to-night 
he will let us alone. 
As I happen to know he has guests of 
his own. 
Friar Cjithbert. Who are they? 
Friar yohii. A German Prince and 
his train, 
Who arrived here just before the rain. 
There is with him a damsel fair to see, 
As slender and graceful as a reed ! 
When she alighted from her steed, 
It seemed like a blossom blown from a 
tree. 
Friar Cuthbert. None of your pale- 
faced girls for me ! 
None of your damsels of high degree ! 
Friar JoJiji. Come, old fellow, drink 
down to your peg ! 
But do not drink any farther, I beg ! 

Friar Patil {sijigs). 
In the days of gold, 
The days of old, 
Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold ! 

Friar Ctdhbert. What an infernal 
racket and riot ! 

Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? 

Why fill the convent with such scan- 
dals, 

As if we were so manv drunken Van- 
dals ? 

Friar Paul {continues). 
Now we have changed 
That law so good. 
To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since 
you are in the mood 
To give your noisy humors vent. 
Sing and howl to your heart's content ! 

Chorus of Monks. 
Funde vinum, funde ! 
Tanquam sint fluminis undae. 
Nee quaeras unde, 
Sed fundas semper abunde ! 

Friar John. What is the name oi" 
yonder friar, 



With an eye that glows like a coal of 

fire. 
And such a black mass of tangled 

hair? 
Friar Paul. He who is sitting there, 
With a rollicking, 
Devil may care, 
Free-and-easy look and air. 
As if he were used to such feasting and 

frolicking? 
Friar John. The same. 
Friar Pazd. He 's a stranger. You 

had better ask his name. 
And w^here he is going, and whence he 

came. 
Friar Johfi. Hallo ! Sir Friar ! 
Friar Paul. You must raise your 

voice a little higher. 
He does not seem to hear what you 

say. 
Now, try again ! He is looking this 

way. 
Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar, 
We wish to inquire 
Whence you came, and where you are 

going. 
And anything else that is worth the 

knowing. 
So be so good as to open your head. 
Lucifer. I am a Frenchman bom 

and bred, 
Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. 
My home 

Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, 
Of which, very like, you never have 

heard. 
Monks. Never a word ! 
Lucifer. You must know, then, it is 

in the diocese 
Called the Diocese of Vannes, 
In the province of Brittany. 
From the gray rocks of Morbihan 
It overlooks the angry sea ; 
The very sea-shore where, 
In his great despair, 
Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, 
Filling the night with woe, 
And wailing aloud to the merciless seas 
The name of his sweet Heloise ! 
Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 
As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 
Who with jovial din 
Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin I 



[o5 



THE GOLD EX LEGEXD. 



Ha 1 that is a convent 1 that is an abbej- ! 

Over the doors, 

None of your death-heads carved in 

wood. 
None of your Saints looking pious and 

good, 
None of your Patriarchs old and shabby ! 
But the heads and tusks of boars. 
And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 
Of the £dlow-deer. 
And then what cheer ! 
What jolly, fet friars. 
Sitting round the great, roaring fires, 
Roaring louder than they, 
With their strong wines, 
And their concubines. 
And never a bell. 
With its swagger and swell, 
Calling you up with a start of afinght 
In the dead of night, 
To send you grumbling down dark st2urs. 
To mumble your prayers. 
But the cheer%- crow 
Of cocks in the \-ard below. 
After daybreak, an hour or so. 
And the barking of deep-mouthed 

hounds. 
These are the sounds 
That, instead of bells, salute the ear. 
And then all day 
Up and away 

Through the' forest, hunting the deer ! 
Ah. my friends ! I 'm afraid that here 
You are a httle too pious, a little too 

tame, 
And the more is the shame. 
'T is the greatest folly 
Not to be joUy ; 
That 's what I think ! 
Come, drink, drink, 
Drink, and die game ! 
Monks. And your Abbot WTiat's-his- 

name? 
Lucifer. Abelard I 
Monks. Did he drink hard ? 
Lticiffr. O no ! Not he I 
He v%"as a dn.- old fellow, 
Without juice enough to get thoroughly 

mellow. 
There he stood, 
Lowering at us in sullen mood. 
As if he had come into Brittany 
Just to reform our brotherhood ! 



\^A roar of laughter.') 

But you see 
1 1 never would do ! 
For some of us knew a thing or two, 
j In the Abbey of Sl Gildas de Rhuys I 
' For instance, the great ado 
With old Fulbert's niece. 
The young and lovely Heloise. 

Friar John. Stop there, if you 
please. 
Till we drink to the feir Heloise. 

AU {drinking and shouting). He- 
loise I Heloise 1 
( The Chapel-beU tolls.) 

L ucifer {starting). W hat is that bell 

for? Are you such asses 
As to keep up the &shion of midnight 

masses? 
Friar Cuthbert. It is only a poor, 

unfortimate brother, 
Who is gifted v^ith most miraculous 

powers 
Of getting up at all sorts of hours. 
And, by way of penance and Christian 

meekness. 
Of creeping silently out of his cell 
To take a pull at that hideous beU ; 
So that all the monks who are lying 

awake 
May murmur some kind of prayer for 

his sake. 
And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! 
Friar John. From frailty and fell — 
A U. Good Lord, deliver us all ! 
Friar Cuthbert. And before the bell 

for matins sounds. 
He takes his lantern, and goes the 

rounds. 
Flashing it into our sleepy eyes. 
Merely to say it is time to arise. 
But enough of that Go on, if you please. 
With vour story^ about St. Gildas de 

Rhuys. 
Lucifer. Well, it finally came to pass 
That, half in fun and hah' in malice. 
One Sunday at Mass 
We put some poison into the chalice. 
But, either by accident or design, 
Peter Abelard kept away 
From the chapel that day. 
And a p)oor, young fi^ar, who in his stead 
Drank the sacramental ^-ine. 
Fell on the steps of the altar., dead ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



X07 



But look ! do you see at the window there 
That face, with a look of grief and de- 
spair. 
That ghastly face, as of one in pain? 
Monks. Who ? where ? 
Lucifer. As I spoke, it vanished 

away again. 
Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious 
Siebald the Refectorarius. 
That fellow is always playing the scout, 
Creeping and peeping and prowling 

about ; 
And then he regales 
The Abbot with scandalous tales. 
L^ccifer. A spy in the convent? 
One of the brothers 
Telling scandalous tales of the others ? 
Out upon him, the lazy loon ! 
I would put a stop to that pretty soon, 
In a way he should rue it. 
Monks. How shall we do it ? 
Lticifer. Do you, brother Paul, 
Creep under the window, close to the 

wall, 
And open it suddenly when I call. 
Then seize the villain by the hair, 
And hold him there, 
And punish him soundly, once for all. 
Friar Cuthbert. As St. Dunstau of 
old, 
We are told, 

Once caught the Devil by the nose ! 
Lucifer. Ha ! ha ! that story is very 
clever, 
But has no foundation whatsoever. 
Quick ! for I see his face again 
Glaring in at the window-pane ; 
Now ! now ! and do not spare your blows. 
(Friar Paul opens the window sud- 
denly, and seizes Siebald. They 
beat him.^ 
Friar Siebald. Help ! help ! are you 

going to slay me? 
Friar Paid. That will teach you 

again to betray me ! 
Friar Siebald. Alercy ! mercy ! 
Friar Paul {shording and beating). 
Rumpas bellorum lorum, 
Vim confer amorum 
Morum verorum rorum 
Tu plena polorum ! 
Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway 
yonder, 



Stretching out his trembling hand, 
Just as Abelard used to stand, 
The flash of his keen, black eyes 
Forerunning the thunder ? 

The Monks {in conftsion). The 

Abbot ! the Abbot ! 
Friar Cuthbert. And what is the 

wonder ! 
He seems to have taken you by surprise. 
Friar Francis. Hide the great 

flagon 
From the eyes of the dragon ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Pull the brown 

hood over your face ! 
This will bring us into disgrace ! 
Abbot. What means this revel and 

carouse ? 
Is this a tavern and drinking-house ? 
Are you Christian monks, or heathen 

devils, 
To pollute this convent with your revels ? 
Were Peter Damian still upon earth. 
To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, 
He would \\Tite your names, with pen 

of gall, 
In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all ! 
Away, you drunkards ! to your cells. 
And pray till you hear the matm-bells ; 
You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother 

Paul! 
And as a penance mark each prayer 
With the scourge upon your shoulders 

bare ; 
Nothing atones for such a sin 
But the blood that foil ows the discipline. 
And you. Brother Cuthbert, come with 

me 
Alone into the sacristy ; 
You, who should be a guide to your 

brothers. 
And are ten times worse than all the 

others. 
For you I 've a draught that has long 

been brewing, 
You shall do a penance worth the doing ! 
Away to your prayers, then, one and all ! 
I wonder the very convent wall 
Doesnot crumble andcrushyouin its fall I 

The neighboring Nunnery. The Ab- 
bess Irmingard sittijtg with Elsie 
in the -moonlight. 

Irmingard. The night is silent, the 
wind is still, 



[o8 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The moon is looking from yonder hill 
Down upon convent, and grove, and 

garden ; 
The clouds have passed away from her 

face. 
Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace. 
Only the tender and quiet grace 
Of one, whose heart has been healed 

with pardon ! 

And such am I. My soul within 
Was dark with passion and soiled with 

sin. 
But now its wounds are healed again ; 
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and 

pain ; 
For across that desolate land of woe. 
O'er whose burning sands I was forced 

to go, 
A wind from heaven began to blow ; 
And all my being trembled and shook, 
As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of 

the field, 
And I was healed, as the sick are healed. 
When fanned by the leaves of the Holy 

Book! 

As thou sittest in the moonlight there, 
Its glor}' flooding thy golden hair, 
And the only darkness that which lies 
In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, 
I feel my soul drawn unto thee, 
Strangely, and strongly, and more and 

more, 
Asto one I have known and lovedbefore; 
For every soul is akin to me 
That dwells in the land of mystery ! 
I am the Lady Irmingard, 
Bom of a noble race and name ! 
Many a wandering Suabian bard. 
Whose life was drear}^, and bleak, and 

hard. 
Has found through me the way to fame. 
Brief and bright were those days, and 

the night 
Which followed was full of a lurid light. 
Love, that of every woman's heart 
Will have the whole, and not a part, 
That is to her, in Nature's plan, 
More than ambition is to man, 
Her light, her life, lier ver}' breath, 
With no alternative but death. 
Found me a maiden soft and young, 
Just from the convent's cloistered 

scliool. 



And seated on my lowly stool, 
Attentive while the minstrels sung. 

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 
Fairest, noblest, best of all. 
Was Walter of the Vogelweid ; 
And, whatsoever may betide, 
Still I think of him with pride ! 
His song was of the summer-time. 
The very birds sang in his rhyme ; 
The sunshine, the delicious air. 
The fragrance of the flowers, were 

there ; 
And I grew restless as I heard. 
Restless and buoyant as a bird, 
Down soft, aerial currents sailing, 
O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in 

bloom. 
And through the momentary gloom 
Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing. 
Yielding and borne I knew not where, 
But feeling resistance unavailing. 

And thus, unnoticed and apart. 
And more by accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Were filled with it by night and day. 
One night, — it was a night in May, — 
Within the garden, unawares, 
Under the blossoms in the gloom, 
I heard it utter my own name 
With protestations and wild prayers ; 
And it rang through me, and became 
Like the archangel's trump of doom, 
Which the soul hears, and must obey ; 
And mine arose as from a tomb. 
My former life now seemed to me 
Such as hereafter death may be, 
When in the great Eternity 
We shall awake and find it day. 

It was a dream, and would not stay ; 
A dream, that in a single night 
Faded and vanished out of sight. 
My father's anger followed fast 
This passion, as a freshening blast 
Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage 
It may increase, but not assuage. 
And he exclaimed : " No wandering bard 
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard ! 
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck 
By messenger and letter sues." 

Gently, but firmly, I replied : 
" Henry of Hoheneck I discard ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



109 



Never the hand of Irmingard 
Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride ! " 
This said I, Walter, for thy sake ; 
This said I, for I could not choose. 
After a pause, my father spake 
In that cold and deliberate tone 
Which turns the hearer into stone, 
And seems itself the act to be 
That follows with such dread certainty ; 
*' This, or the cloister and the veil ! " 
No other words than these he said, 
But they were like a flmeral wail ; 
My life was ended, my heart was dead. 

That night from the castle-gate went 

down. 
With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, 
Two shadows, mounted on shadowy 

steeds. 
Taking the narrow path that leads 
Into the forest dense and brown. 
In the leafy darkness of the place. 
One could not distinguish form nor face, 
Only a bulk without a shape, 
A darker shadow in the shade ; 
One scarce could say it moved ®r stayed. 
Thus it was we made our escape ! 
A foaming brook, with many a bound. 
Followed us like a playful hound ; 
Then leaped before us, and in the hol- 
low 
Paused, and waited for us to follow. 
And seemed impatient, and afraid 
That our tardy flight should be betrayed 
By the sound our horses' hoof-beats 

made. 
And when we reached the plain below, 
We paused a moment and drew rein 
To look back at the castle again ; 
And we saw the windows all aglow 
With lights, that were passing to and fro ; 
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat ; 
The brook crept silent to our feet ; 
We knew what most we feared to know. 
Then suddenly horns began to blow ; 
And we heard a shout, and a heavy 

tramp. 
And our horses snorted in the damp 
Night-air of the meadows green and 

wide, 
And in a moment, side by side. 
So close, they must have seemed but 

one, 
The shadows across the moonlight run. 
And another came, and swept behind. 



Like the shadow of clouds before the 
wind ! 

How I remember that breathless flight 
Across the moors, in the summer night ! 
How under our feet the long, white road 
Backward like a river flowed, 
Sweeping wath it fences and hedges, 
Whilst farther away, and overhead, 
Paler than I, with fear and dread. 
The moon fled with us, as we fled 
Along the forest's jagged edges ! 

All this I can remember well ; 

But of what afterwards befell 

I nothing further can recall 

Then a blind, desperate, headlong fal^ ; 

The rest is a blank and darkness all. 

When I awoke out of this swoon, 

The sun was shining, not the moon, 

Making a cross upon the wall 

With the bars of my windows narrow 

and tall ; 
And I prayed to it, as I had been wont 

to pray. 
From early childhood, day by day, 
Each morning, as in bed I lay ! 
I was lying again in my own room ! 
And I thanked God, inmy fever and pain, 
That those shadows on the midnight 

plain 
Were gone, and could not come again ! 
I struggled no longer with my doom ! 

This happened many years ago. 
I left my father's home to come 
Like Catherine to her martyi'dom. 
For blindly I esteemed it so. 
And when I heard the convent door 
Behind me close, to ope no more, 
I felt it smite me like a blow. 
Through all my limbs a shudder ran, 
And on my bruised spirit fell 
The dampness of my narrow cell 
As night-air on a wounded man, 
Giving intolerable pain. 

But now a better life began. 

I felt the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly cease, 

Ending in perfect rest and peace ! 

It was not apathy, nor dulness. 

That weighed and pressed upon my 

brain, 
But the same passion I had given 
To earth before, now turned to heaven 
With all its overflowing fulness. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Alas ! the world is full of peril ! 

The path that runs through the fairest 

meads, 
On the sunniest side of the valley, leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile ! 
Alike in the high-boni and the lowly, 
The wdll is feeble, and passion strong. 
We cannot sever right from wrong ; 
Some falsehood mingles with all truth ; 
Nor is it strange the heart of youth 
Should waver and comprehend but 

slowly 
The things that are holy and unholy ! 
But in this sacred, calm retreat, 
We are all well and safely shielded 
From winds that blow, and waves that 

beat, 
From the cold, and rain, and blighting 

heat. 
To which the strongest hearts have 

yielded. 
Here w^e stand as the Virgins Seven, 
For our celestial bridegroom yearning; 
Our hearts are lamps forever burning. 
With a steady and unwavering flame. 
Pointing upward, forever the same, 
Steadily upward toward the heaven ! 

The moon is hidden behind a cloud ; 

A sudden darkness fills the room. 

And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom. 

Shine like jewels in a shroud. 

On the leaves is a sound of falling rain ; 

A bird, awakened in its nest. 

Gives a faint twitter of unrest. 

Then smooths its plumes and sleeps 

again. 
No other sounds than these I hear ; 
The hour of midnight must be near. 
Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue 
Of riding many a dusty league ; 
Sink, then, gently to thy slumber ; 
Me so many cares encumber, 
So many ghosts, and forms of fright, 
Have started from their graves to-night. 
They have driven sleep from mine eyes 

away : 
I will go dovNTi to the chapel and pray. 



A covered bridge at Lucerne. 

Prince Henry. God's blessing on the 
architects who build 



The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses 
Before impassable to human feet. 
No less than on the builders of cathe- 
drals. 
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown 

across 
The dark and terrible abyss of Death, 
Well has the name of Pontifex been 

given 
Unto the Church's head, as the chief 

builder 
And architect of the invisible bridge 
That leads from earth to heaven. 

Elsie. How dark it grows ! 

What are these paintings on the walls 

around us ? 

Prijice Henry. The Dance Macaber ! 

Elsie. What? 

Prince Henry. The Dance of Death ! 

All that go to and fro must look upon it, 

Mindful of what they shall be, while 

beneath, 
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent 

river 
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life, 
With dimpling eddies, ever green and 

bright. 
Save where the shadow of this bridge 
falls on it. 
Elsie. O yes I I see it now ! 
PrifLce Henry. The grim musician 
Leads all men through the mazes of that 

dance, 
To different sounds in different meas- 
ures moving ; 
Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes 

a drum. 
To tempt or terrifS'. 

Elsie. What is this picture? 

Prince Henry. It is a young man 
singing to a nun. 
Who kneels at her devotions, but in 

kneeling 
Turns round to look at him ; and 

Death, meanwhile. 
Is putting out the candles on the altar ! 
Elsie. Ah, what a pity 't is that she 
should listen 
Unto such songs, when in her orisons 
She might have heard in heaven the 
angels singing 1 
Prince Henry. Here he has stolen 
a jester's cap and bells. 
And dances with the Queen. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 



Elsie. A foolish jest ! 

Prince Henry. And here the heart 
of the new-wedded wife, 
Coming from church with her beloved 

lord, 
He startles with the rattle of his drum. 
Elsie. Ah, that is sad ! And yet 
perhaps 't is best 
That she should die, with all the sun- 
shine on her. 
And all the benedictions of the morn- 
ing, 
Before this affluence of golden light 
Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, 
Then into darkness ! 

Prince Henry. Under it is written, 
" Nothing but death shall separate thee 
and me ! " 
Elsie. And what is this, that follows 

close upon it ? 
Prince Henry. Death, playing on a 
dulcimer. Behind him, 
A poor old woman, with a rosary, 
Follows the sound, and seems to wish 

her feet 
Were swifter to o'ertake him. Under- 
neath, 
The inscription reads, " Better is Death 
than Life." 
Elsie. Better is Death than Life ! 
Ah yes ! to thousands 
Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings 
That song of consolation, till the air 
Rings with it, and they cannot choose 

but follow 
Whither he leads. And not the old 

alone. 
But the young also hear it, and are still. 
Prince Henry. Yes, in their sadder 
moments. 'T is the sound 
Of their own hearts they hear, half full 

of tears. 
Which are like crystal cups, half filled 

with water. 
Responding to the pressure of a finger 
With music sweet and low and melan- 
choly. 
Let us go forward, and no longer stay 
In this great picture-gallery of Death ! 
I hate it ! ay, the very thought of it ! 
Elsie. Why is it hateful to you ? 
Prince Henry. For the reason 

That life, and all that speaks of life, is 
lovely, 



And death, and all that speaks of death, 
is hateful. 
Elsie. The grave itself is but a cov- 
ered bridge. 

Leading from light to light, through a 
brief darkness ! 
Prince Henry {emerging" /rom the 
bridge). I breathe again more 
freely ! Ah, how pleasant 

To come once more into the light of 
day, 

Out of that shadow of death ! To hear 
again 

The hoof-beats of our horses on firm 
ground. 

And not upon those hollow planks, re- 
sounding 

With a sepulchral echo, like the clods 

On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder lies 

The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, 
apparelled 

In light, and lingering, like a village 
maiden. 

Hid in the bosom of her native moun- 
tains. 

Then pouring all her life into another's. 

Changing her name and being ! Over- 
head, 

Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 

Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. 

{They pass on.) 

The DeviPs Bridge. Prince Henry 
and Elsie crossing, with, attend- 
ants. 

Guide. This bridge is called the 
Devil's Bridge. 
With a single arch, fi-om ridge to ridge, 
It leaps across the terrible chasm 
Yawning beneath us, black and deep. 
As if, in some convulsive spasm. 
The summits of the hills had cracked, 
And made a road for the cataract, 
That raves and rages down the steep ! 

Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! ha 1 

Guide. Never any bridge but this 
Could stand across the wild abyss ; 
All the rest, of wood or stone. 
By the Devil's hand were overthrowTi. 
He toppled crags from the precipice, 
And whatsoe'er was built by day 
In the night was sw^ept away ; 
None could stand but this alone. 

Lucifer{under the bridge). Ha! ha I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Guide. I showed you in the valley a , 
boulder 
Marked with the imprint of his shoul- 
der ; 
As he was bearing it up this way, 
A peasant, passing, cried, " Herr Je ! " 
And the Devil dropped it in his fright, 
And vanished suddenly out of sight ! 
Lucifer {u7ider the bridge). Ha! ha! 
Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 
For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 
Built this at last, with a single arch. 
Under which, on its endless march. 
Runs the river, white with foam, 
Like a thread through the eye of a nee- 
dle. 
And the Devil promised to let it stand, 
Under compact and condition 
That the first living thing which crossed 
Should be surrendered into his hand, 
And be beyond redemption lost, 

Luci/er{undertlie bridge). Ha! ha! 

perdition ! 
Guide. At length, the bridge being 
all completed, 
The Abbot, standing at its head, 
Threw across it a loaf of bread, 
Which a hungry dog sprang after. 
And the rocks re-echoed with the peals 

of laughter 
To see the Devil thus defeated ! 
{They pass on.) 
Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! 
ha ! defeated ! 
For journeys and for crimes like this 
I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss ! 

The St. Gothard Pass. 
Prince Henry. This is the highest 
point. Two ways the rivers 
Leap do\%Ti to different seas, and as they 

roll 
Grow deep and still, and their majestic 

presence 
Becomes a benefaction to the tovnis 
They visit, wandering silently among 

them, 
Like patriarchs old among their shining 
tents. 
Elsie. How bleak and bare it is ! 
Nothing but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 
Prince Henry. Yet are they not for- 
gotten ; 



Beneficent Nature sends the mists to 
feed them, 
Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, 
borne aloft 
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away 
Over the snowy peaks ! It seems to me 
The body of St, Catherine, borne by 
angels ! 
Pri7ice Henry. Thou art St. Cath- 
erine, and invisible angels 
Bear thee across these chasms and 

precipices, 
Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against 
a stone ! 
Elsie. Would I were borne unto my 
grave, as she was, 
Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now 
I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! 
What sound is that ? 

Prince Henry. The tumbling ava- 
lanches ! 
Elsie. How awful, yet how beautiful ! 
Prince Henry. These are 

The voices of the mountains ! Thus 

they ope 
Their sno\Ny lips, and speak unto each 

other, 
In the primeval language, lost to man. 
Elsie. What land is this that spreads 

itself beneath us? 
Prince Henry. Italy ! Italy ! 
Elsie. Land of the Madonna ! 

How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden 
Of Paradise ! 

Prince Hefiry. Nay, of Gethsemane 
To thee and me, of passion and of 

prayer ! 
Yet once of Paradise. Lon§; years ago 
I wandered as a youth among its bowers, 
And never from my heart has faded quite 
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, 
Encircles with a ring of purple light 
All the horizon of my youth. 

Guide. ' O friends ! 

The days are short, the way before us 

long ; 
We must not linger, if we think to reach 
The inn at Belinzona before vespers ! 

( They pass on. ) 
A t the foot of the A Ips. A halt un- 
der tfie trees at noon. 
Prince Henry. Here let us pause t 
moment in the trembling 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



"3 



Shadow and sunshine of the roadside 

trees. 
And, our tired horses in a group as- 
sembling, 
Inhale long draughts of this delicious 

breeze. 
Our fleeter steeds have distanced our 

attendants ; 
They lag behind us with a slower pace ; 
We will await them under the green 

pendants 
Of the great willows in this shady 

place. 
Ho, Barbarossa ! how thy mottled 

haunches 
Sweat with this canter over hill and 

glade ! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging 

branches 
Fan th}^ hot sides and comfort thee 

with shade ! 
Elsie. What a delightful landscape 

spreads before us. 
Marked with a whitewashed cottage 

here and there ! 
And, in luxuriant garlands drooping 

o'er us, 
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sun- 
ny air. 
Prince Henry. Hark ! what sweet 

sounds are those, whose accents 

holy 
Fill the warm noon with music sad and 

sweet ! 
Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, mov- 
ing slowly 
On their long journey, with uncovered 

feet. 

Pilgrims {chanting the Hymn of St. 
Hildebert). 

Me receptet Sion ilia, 
Sion David, urbs tranquilla, 
Cujus faber auctor lucis, 
Cujus portse lignum crucis, 
Cu_jus claves lingua Petri, 
Cujus cives semper l^etL, 
Cujus muri lapis vivus, 
Cujus custos Rex festivus ! 
l^ucifer (as a Friar in the proces- 
sion). Here am I, too, in the 
pious band. 
In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite 
dressed ! 



The soles of my feet are as hard and 

tanned 
As the conscience of old Pope Hilde- 

brand, 
The Holy Satan, who made the wives 
Of the bishops lead such sliameful 

lives. 
All day long I beat my breast. 
And chant with a most particular zest 
The Latin hymns, which I understand 
Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 
And at night such lodging in barns and 

sheds. 
Such a hurly-burly in country' inns. 
Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, 
Such a helter-skelter of prayers and 

sins ! 
Of all the contrivances of the time 
For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime. 
There is none so pleasing to me and 

mine 
As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! 
Prince Henry. If from the outward 

man we judge the inner. 
And cleanliness is godliness, I fear 
A hopeless reprobate, a Iiardened sin- 
ner, 
Must be that Carmelite now passing 

near. 
L ^lci/er. There is my German Prince 

again. 
Thus far on his journey to Salem, 
And the lovesick girl, whose heated 

brain 
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain ; 
But it 's a long road that has no turn ! 
Let them quietly hold their way, 
I have also a part in the play. 
But first I must act to my heart's con- 
tent 
This mummery and this merriment. 
And drive this motley flock of sheep 
Into the fold, where drink and sleep 
The jolly old friars of Benevent. 
Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh 
To see these beggars hobble along, 
Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, 
Chanting their wonderful piff and pafF, 
And, to make up for not understanding 

the song, 
Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong ! 
Were it not for my magic garters and 

staff. 
And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And the mischief I make in the idle 

throng, 
I should not continue the business long. 

Pilgrims {chanting). 
In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver seternum, pax perennis ; 
In hac odor implens caslos, 
In hac semper festum melos ! 

Prince Henry. Do you observe that 
monk among the train, 

Who pours from his great throat the 
roaring bass, 

As a cathedral spout pours out the rain. 

And this way turns his rubicund, round 
face? 
Elsie. It is the same who, on the 
Strasburg square, 

Preached to the people in the open air. 
Prince He7iry. And he has crossed 
o'er mountain, field, and fell, 

On that good steed, that seems to bear 
him well. 

The hackney of the Friars of Orders 
Gray, 

His own stout legs ! He, too, was in 
the play. 

Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 

Good morrow, Friar ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Good morrow, no- 
ble sir ! 
Prince Henry. I speak in German, 
for, unless I err, 

You are a German. 

Friar Cuthbert. I cannot gainsay 
you. 

But by what instinct, or what secret 
. sign. 

Meeting me here, do you straightway 
divine 

That northward of the Alps my coun- 
try lies? 
Prince Henry. Your accent, like St. 
Peter's, would betray you. 

Did not your yellow beard and your 
blue eyes. 

Moreover, we have seen your face be- 
fore. 

And heard you preach at the Cathedral 
door 

On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg 
square. 

We were among the crowd that gath- 
ered there, 



And saw you play the Rabbi with great 

skill. 
As if, by leaning o'er so many years 
To walk with little children, your own 

will 
Had caught a childish attitude from 

theirs, 
A kind of stooping in its form and gait, 
And could no longer stand erect and 

straight. 
Whence come you now? 
Friar Cuthbert. From the old mon- 
astery 
Of Hirschau, in the forest ; being sent 
Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 
To see the image of the Virgin Mary, 
That moves its holy eyes, and some- 
times speaks. 
And lets the piteous tears run down its 

cheeks. 
To touch the hearts of the impenitent. 
Prince Henry. O, had I faith, as in 
the days gone by, 
That knew no doubt, and feared no 
mystery ! 
Lucifer {at a distance). Ho, Cuth- 
bert ! Friar Cuthbert ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Farewell, Prince ! 
I cannot stay to argue and convince. 
Prince Henry. This is indeed the 
blessed Mary's land, 
Virgin and Mother of our dear Re 

deemer ! 
All hearts are touched and softened at 

her name : 
Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, 
The priest, the prince, the scholar, and 

the peasant. 
The man of deeds, the visionary dream- 
er, 
Pay homage to her as one ever present ! 
And even as children, who have much 

offended 
A too indulgent father, in great shame, 
Penitent, and yet not daring unattended 
To go into his presence, at the gate 
Speak with their sister, and confiding 

wait 
Till she goes in before and intercedes ; 
So men, repenting of their evil deeds. 
And yet not venturing rashly to draw 

near 
With their requests an angry fathe*^ 
ear. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



IIS 



Offer to her their prayers and their 

confession, 
And she for them in heaven makes in- 
tercession. 
And if our Faith had given us nothing 

more 
Than this example of all womanhood, 
So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, 
So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, 
This were enough to prove it higher 

and truer 
Than all the creeds the world had 
known before. 
Pilgrims [chanting afar off\ 
Urbs coelestis, urbs beata. 
Supra petram collocata, 
Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 
Te saluto, te suspiro, 
Te affecto, te requiro ! 

The hut at Genoa. A terrace over- 
looking the sea. Night. 

Prijice Henry. It is the sea, it is the 
sea, 
In all its vague immensity, 
Fading and darkening in the distance ! 
Silent, majestical, and slow. 
The white ships haunt it to and fro. 
With all their ghostly sails unfurled, 
As phantoms from another world 
Haunt the dim confines of existence ! 
But ah ! how few can comprehend 
Their signals, or to what good end 
From land to land they come and go I 
Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark. 
All voyaging to unknown coasts. 
We wave our farewells from the shore, 
And they depart, and come no more, 
Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. 

Above the darksome sea of death 
Looms the great life that is to be, 
A land of cloud and mysterj', 
A dim mirage, with shapes of men 
Long dead, and passed beyond our ken. 
A\ve-struckwegaze,andhold our breath 
Till the fair pageant vanisheth. 
Leaving us m perplexity, 
And doubtful whether it has been 
A vision of the world unseen, 
Or a bright image of our own 
Against the sky in vapors thrown 



Lticifer {singing from the sea). 

Thou didst not make it, thou 

canst not mend it. 
But thou hast the power to end it ! 
The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, 
Deep it lies at thy very feet ; 
There is no confessor like unto Death ! 
Thou canst not see him, but he is near; 
Thou needest not whisper above thy 

breath, 
And he will hear ; 
He will answer the questions, 
The vague surmises and suggestions, 
That fill thy soul with doubt and fear ' 
Pri7ice Henry. The fisherman, who 

lies afloat, 
With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
Is singing softly to the Night ! 
But do I comprehend aright 
The meaning of the words he sung 
So sweetly in his native tongue ? 
Ah yes ! the sea is still and deep. 
All things within its bosom sleep ! 
A single step, and all is o'er ; 
A plunge, a bubble, and no more ; 
And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free 
From martyrdom and agony. 

Elsie {coini7ig from her chamber 

tipon the terrace). The night is 

calm and cloudless. 
And still as still can be, 
And the stars come forth to listen 
To the music of the sea. 
They gather, and gather, and gather. 
Until they crowd the sky. 
And listen, in breathless silence, 
To the solemn litany. 
It begins in rocky caverns. 
As a voice that chants alone 
To the pedals of the organ 
In monotonous undertone ; 
And anon from shelving beaches, 
And shallow sands beyond. 
In snow-white robes uprising 
The ghostly choirs respond. 
And sadly and unceasing 
The mournful voice sings on. 
And the snow-white choirs still answer 
Christe eleison ! 

Prince Henry Angel of God ! thy 

finer sense perceives 
Celestial and perpetual harmonies ! 
Thy purer soul, that trembles and be- 

heves, 



ii6 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Hears the archangel's trumpet in the 

breeze, 
And where the forest rolls, or ocean 

heaves, 
Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, 
And tongues of prophets speaking in 

the leaves. 
But I hear discord only and despair. 
And whispers as of demons in the air ! 

At sea. 

II Padrone. The wind upon our 
quarter lies, 
And on before the freshening gale. 
That fills the snow-white lateen sail, 
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 
Around, the billows burst and foam ; 
They lift her o'er the sunken rock, 
They beat her sides with many a shock. 
And then upon their flowing dome 
They poise her, like a weathercock ! 
Between us and the western skies 
The hills of Corsica arise ; 
Eastward, in yonder long, blue line. 
The summits of the Apennine, 
And southward, and still far away, 
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 
You cannot see it, where it lies. 

Prijice He7iry. Ah, would that never- 
more mine eyes 
Might see its towers by night or day ! 

Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully, 
There comes a cloud out of the sea, 
That bears the form of a hunted deer. 
With hide of brown, and hoofs of 

black. 
And antlers laid upon its back. 
And fleeing fast and wild with fear. 
As if the hounds were on its track ! 
Prince Henry. Lo ! while we gaze, 
it breaks and falls 
In shapeless masses, like the walls 
Of a burnt city. Broad and red 
The fires of the descending sun 
Glare through the windows, and o'er- 

head. 
Athwart the vapors, dense and dun. 
Long shafts of silvery light arise, 
Like rafters that support the skies ! 
Elsie. See ! from its summit the lurid 
levin 
Flashes downward without warning, 
As Lucifer, son of the morning, 
Fell from the battlements of heaven ! 



// Padrone. I must entreat you, 

friends, below ! 
The angry storm begins to blow. 
For the weather changes with the moon. 
All this morning, until noon. 
We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws 
Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. 
Only a little hour ago 
I was whistling to Saint Antonio 
For a capful of wind to fill our sail, 
And instead of a breeze he has sent a 

gale. 
Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars, 
With their glimmering lanterns, all at 

play 
On the tops of the masts and the tips 

of the spars. 
And I knew we should have foul weather 

to-day. 
Cheerly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! 
Brail up the mainsail, and let her go 
As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! 

Do you see that Livornese felucca, 
That vessel to the windward yonder, 
Running with her gunwale under ? 
I waslookingwhen the windo'ertookher. 
She had all sail set, and the only wonder 
Is, that at once the strength of the blast 
Did not carry away her mast. 
She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 
That, through the fear of the Algerines, 
Convoys those lazy brigantines, 
Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. 
Now all is ready, high and low ; 
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! 

Ha ! that is the first dash of the rain, 
With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, 
Just enough to moisten our sails. 
And make them ready for the strain. 
See how she leaps, as the blasts o'er- 

take her. 
And speeds away with a bone in her 

mouth ! 
Now keep her head toward the south. 
And there is no danger of bank or 

breaker. 
With the breeze behind us, on we go; 
Not too much, good Saint Antonio 1 

VI. 

The School o/ Salerjio. A travelling 
Scholastic affixing his Theses to the 
gate oftJie College. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



17 



Scholastic. There, that is my gaunt- 
let, my banner, my shield. 

Hung up as a challenge to all the field ! 

One hundred and twenty-five proposi- 
tions, 

Which I will maintain with the sword 
of the tongue 

Against all disputants, old and young. 

Let us see if doctors or dialecticians 

Will dare to dispute my definitions, 

Or attack any one of my learned theses. 

Here stand I; the end shall be as God 
pleases. 

I think I have proved, by profound 
researches. 

The error of all those doctrines so 
vicious 

Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 

That are making such terrible work in 
the churches. 

By Michael the Stammerer sent from 
the East, 

And done into Latin by that Scottish 
beast, 

Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to 
maintain. 

In the face of the truth, the error in- 
fernal. 

That the universe is and must be eter- 
nal ; 

At first laying down, as a fact funda- 
mental. 

That nothing with God can be acci- 
dental ; 

Then asserting that God before the 
creation 

Could not have existed, because it is 
plain 

That, had he existed, he would have 
created : 

Which is begging the question that 
should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than 
laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respiration 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, 
hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again, 

So that nothing but God alone will 
remain. 

And therein he contradicteth himself; 

For he opens the whole discussion by 
stating. 

That God can only exist in creating. 



That question I think I have laid on 

the shelf 1 
{He goes out. Two Doctors come in 
disputing^ and followed by pupils.^ 

Doctor Serafi7io. I, with the Doctor 
Seraphic, maintain, 
That a word which is only conceived 

in the brain 
Is a type of eternal Generation ; ^ 
The spoken word is the Incarnation. 
Doctor Cherubino. What do I care 
for the Doctor Seraphic, 
With all his wordy chaffer and traffic? 
Doctor Serafino. You make but a 
paltry show of resistance ; 
Universals have no real existence I 
Doctor Cherubino. Your words are 
but idle and empty chatter ; 
Ideas are eternally joined to matter ! 
Doctor Serafino. May the Lord have 
mercy on your position, 
You wretched, wrangling cullerof herbs ! 
Doctor Cherubino May he send your 
soul to eternal perdition. 
For your Treatise on the Irregular Verbs! 
{They rush out fightijzg. Two Schol- 
ars come in.) 
First Scholar. Monte Cassino, then, 
is your College. 
What think you of ours here at Salern ? 
Second Scholar. To tell the truth, I 
arrived so lately, 
I hardly yet have had time to discern. 
So much, at least, I am bound to ac- 
knowledge : 
The air seems healthy, the buildings 

stately, 
And on the whole I like it greatly. 
First Scholar. Yes, the air is sweet ; 
the Calabrian hills 
Send us down puffs of mountain air ; 
And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills 
With its coolness cloister and court 

and square. 
Then at every season of the year 
There are crowds of guests and travel- 
lers here ; 
Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and 

traders 
From the Levant, with figs and wine. 
And bands of wounded and sick Cru 

saders, 
Coming back from Palestine. 



ii8 



THE GOLDEN LEGEXD. 



Second Scholar. And what are the 

studies you pursue? 
What is the course you here go through ? 
First Scholar. The first three years 

of the college course 
Are given ic Logic alone, as the source 
Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. 
Second Scholar. That seems rather 

strange, I must confess, 
In a Medical School ; yet, neverthe- 
less. 
You doubtless have reasons for that 

First Scholar. O yes ' 

For none but a clever dialectician 
Can hope to become a great physician ; 
That has been settled long ago. 
Logic makes an important part 
Of the myster\' of the healing art ; 
For without it how could you hope to 

show- 
That nobody knows so much as you 

know ? 
After this there are five years more 
Devoted whoUy to medicine. 
With lectures on chirurgical lore, 
And dissections of the bodies of swine. 
As likest the human form di\-ine. 

Second Schola r. What are the books 

now most in vogue ? 
First Scholar. Quite an extensive 

catalogue ; 
Mostly, however, books of our own ; 
As Gariopontus' Passionarius, 
And the writings of Matthew Platea- 

rius ; 
And a volume universally knowm 
As the Regimen of the School of Salem, 
For Robert of Normandy wnttenin terse 
And very elegant Latin verse. 
Each of these writings has its turn. 
And when at length we have finished 

these, 
Then comes the struggle for degrees, 
With all the oldest and ablest critics ; 
The public thesis and disputation, 
Question, and answer, and explanation 
Of a passage out of Hippocrates, 
Or Aristotle's Analytics. 
There the triumphant Magister stands I 
A book is solemnly placed in his hands, 
On which he swears to follow the rule 
And ancient forms of the good old 

School ; 
To report if any confectionarius 



Mingles his drugs with matters various 
And to visit his patients twice a day. 
And once in the night, if they live in 

town. 
And if they are poor, to take no pay. 
Having faithfully promised these, 
His head is crowned w ith a laurel crown ; 
A kiss on his cheek, a nng on his hand, 
The Magister Artium et Physices 
Goes fonh from the school like a lord of 

the land. 
And now, as we have the whole morning 

before us. 
Let us go m, if you make no objection, 
And listen awhile to a learned prelection 
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 

{They go in. Enter Lucifer as a 
Doctor.) 

Liicifer. This is the great School of 
Salem ! 
A land of wrangling and of quarrels. 
Of brains that seethe, and hearts that 

bum. 
Where ever\' emulous scholar hears. 
In every breath that comes to his ears. 
The rustling of another's laurels : 
The air of the place is called salubrious ; 
The neighborhood of Vesurius lends it 
An odor volcanic, that rather mends it, 
And the buildings have an aspect lugu- 
brious, 
That inspires a feeling of awe and terror 
Into the heart of the beholder. 
And befits such an ancient homestead of 

error. 
Where the old falsehoods moulder and 

smoulder. 
And yearly by many hundred hands 
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth. 
And sown like tares in the field of truth, 
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 

What have we here, affixed to the gate ? 
The challenge of some scholastic wigh; 
Who wishes to hold a public debate 
On sundry- questions wTong or right ! 
Ah, now this is my great delight ! 
For I have often observed of late 
That such discussions end in a fight. 
Let us see w hat the learned wag main 

tains 
With such a prodigal waste of brains, 

{Reads.') 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND 



119 



'Whether angels in moving from place 

to place 
Pass through the Intermediate space, 
Whether God himself is the author of 

evil, 
Or whether that is the work of the Devil 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, 
And whether he now is chained in hell. " 

I think I can answer that question well ! 
So long as the boastful human mind 
Consents In such mills as this to grind, 
I sit very firmly upon my throne ! 
Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, 
To see men leaving the golden grain 
To gather In piles the pitiful chaff 
That old Peter Lombard thrashed with 

his brain. 
To have it caught up and tossed again 
On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Co- 
logne ! 

But my guests approach ! there Is In the 

air 
A fi-agrance, like that of the Beautiful 

Garden 
Of Paradise, in the days that were ! 
An odor of innocence, and of prayer. 
And of love, and faith that never fails, 
Such as the fresh young heart exhales 
Before It begins to wdther and harden ! 
I cannot breathe stich ^n atmosphere ! 
My soul is filled with a nameless fear, 
That, after all my trouble and pain. 
After all my restless endeavor, 
The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, 
The most ethereal, most divine. 
Will escape from my hands for ever and 

ever. 
But the other Is already mine ! 
Let him live to corrupt his race. 
Breathing among them, with every 

bi eath, 
Weakness, selfishness, and the base 
And pusillanimous fear of death. 
I know his nature, and I know 
That of all who in my ministry 
Wander the great earth to and fro, 
And on my errands come and go. 
The safest and subtlest are such as he. 

[Enter Prince Henry and Elsie, 
witk attendajits.) 

Prince Henry. Can you direct us to 
Friar Angelo ? 



Litcifer. He stands before you. 
Pri7ice Henry. Then you know our 
purpose. 
I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and 

this 
The maiden that I spake of in my letters. 
Lucifer. It Is a very grave and sol- 
emn business ! 
We must not be precipitate Does she 
Without compulsion, of her own freewill, 
Consent to this? 

Prince Henry. Against all opposi 
tlon. 
Against all prayers, entreaties, protes- 
tations. 
She will not be persuaded. 

Lucifer. That is strange ! 

Have you thought w^ell of it ? 

Elsie. I come not here 

To argue, but to die. Your business 

is not 
To question, but to kill me. I am ready. 
I am Impatient to be gone from here 
Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again 
The spirit of tranquillity within me. 
Prince Henry. Would I had not 
come here ! Would 1 were dead. 
And thou wert in thy cottage in the 

forest. 
And hadst not known me ! Wh}^ have 

I done this ? 
Let me go back and die. 

Elsie. It cannot be ; 

Not if these cold, flat stones on which 

we tread 
Were coulters heated white, and yonder 

gateway 
Flamed like a furnace with a seven-fold 

heat. 
I must fulfil my purpose, 

Prince Henry. I forbid it ! 

Not one step farther. For I only meant 
To put thus far thy courage to the proof 
It is enough. I, too, have strength to 

die, 
For thou hast taught me ! 

Elsie. O my Prince ! remember 

Your promises. Let me fulfil my er- 
rand. 
You do not look on life and death as I do. 
There are two angels, that attend unseen 
Each one of us, and In great books record 
Our good and evil deeds. He who 
writes down 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The good ones, after every action closes 
His volume, and ascends with it to God. 
The other keeps his dreadful day-book 

open 
Till sunset, that we may repent ; which 

doing. 
The record of the action fades away, 
And leaves a line of white across the 

page. 
Now if my act be good, as I believe, 
It cannot be recalled. It is already 
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed 

accomplished. 
The rest is yours. Why wait you ? I 

am ready. 

{To her attendants.) 

Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice 

with me. 
I shall not feel the pain, but shall be 

gone, 
And you will have another friend in 

heaven. 
Then start not at the creaking of the 

door 
Through which I pass. I see what lies 

beyond it. 

{To Princb Henry.) 

And you, O Prince ! bear back my 

benison 
Unto my father's house, and all within 

it. 
This morning in the church I prayed 

for them, 
After confession, after absolution. 
When my whole soul was white, I 

prayed for them. 
God will take care of them, they need 

me not. 
And in your life let my remembrance 

linger. 
As something not to trouble and dis- 
turb it. 
But to complete it, adding life to life. 
And if at times beside the evening fire 
You see my face among the other faces, 
Let it not be regarded as a ghost 
That haunts your house, but as a guest 

that loves you. 
Nay, even as one of your own family. 
Without whose presence there were 

something wanting. 
I have no more to say. Let us go in. 



Prince Henry. Friar Angelo ! I 
charge you on your life, 
Believe not what she says, for she is mad, 
And comes here not to die, but to be 
healed. 
Elsie. Alas ! Prince Henry ! 

Lucifer. Come with me ; this way. 

(Elsie goes in with Lucifer, who 
thrusts Prince Henry back atid 
closes the door.) 

Prince Henry. Gone ! and the light 
of all my hfe gone with her ! 

A sudden darkness falls upon the world ! 

O, what a vile and abject thing am I, 

That purchase length of days at such a 
cost ! 

Not by her death alone, but by the death 

Of all that 's good and true and noble 
in me ! 

All manhood, excellence, and self-re- 
spect. 

All love, and faith, and hope, and heart 
are dead I 

All my divine nobility of nature 

By this one act is forfeited forever. 

I am a Prince in nothing but in name ! 

( To the attendants. ) 

Why did you let this horrible deed be 
done? 

Why did you not lay hold on her, and 
keep her 

From self-destruction ? Angelo ! mur- 
derer ! 

{Struggles at the door^ but cannot 
open it.) 

Elsie {within). Farewell, dear Prince ! 

farewell ! 
Prince Henry. Unbar the door/ 

Lucifer. It is too late ! 
Prince Henry. It shall not be too 
late ! 
( They burst the door open and rush in.) 

The Cottage in the Odenwald. Ursu- 
la spinnijig. Suni7ner afternoon. 
A table spread. 

Ursula. I have marked it well, — it 
must be true, — 
Death never takes one alone, but two 
Whenever he enters in at a door, 
Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 



He always leaves it upon the latch, 
And comes again ere the year is o'er. 
Never one of a household only ! 
Perhaps it is a mercy of God, 
Lest the dead there under the sod, 
In the land of strangers, should be 

lonely !_ 
Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! 
Ii is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! 
Were it not for the children, I should 

pray 
That Death would take me within the 

year ! 
And Gottlieb ! — he Is at work all day, 
In the sunny field, or the forest murk, 
But I knowthat his thoughts are far away, 
I know that his heart is not in his work ! 
And when he comes home to me at night 
He is not cheery, but sits and sighs. 
And I see the great tears in his eyes, 
And tr^^ to be cheerful for his sake. 
Only the children's hearts are light. 
Mine is wearv^, and ready to break. 
God help us ! I hope we have done right ; 
We thought we were acting for the best ! 

{Looking throtcgh the open door.) 

Who is it coming under the trees ? 

A man, in the Prince's liver}'- dressed ! 

He looks about him with doubtful face, 

As if uncertain of the place. 

He stops at the beehives ; — now he sees 

The garden gate ; — he is going past ! 

Can he be afraid of the bees? 

No ; he is coming in at last ! 

He fills my heart ^^-ith strange alarm ! 

{Enter a Forester.) 

Forester. Is this the tenant Gottlieb's 

farm ? 
Ursula. This is his farm, and I his 
wife. 
Pray sit. What may your business be ? 
Forester. News from the Prince ! 
Ursula. Of death or life ? 

Forester. You put your questions 

eagerly ! 
Ursula. Answer me, then ! How Is 

the Prince ? 
Forester. I left him only two hours 
since 
Homeward returning dowTi the river. 
As strong and well as if God, the Giver, 
Had given him back his youth again. 



Ursula {despairing). Then Elsie, my 

poor child, is dead ! 
Forester. That, my good woman, I 

have not said. 
Don't cross the bridge till you come to it, 
Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. 
Urstda. Keep me no longer in this 

pain ! 
Forester. It is true your daughter Is 

no more ; — 
That is, the peasant she was before. 
Urs2da. Alas ! I am simple and lowly 

bred, 
I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. 
And it is not well that you of the court 
Should mock me thus, and make a sport 
Of a joyless mother whose child is dead. 
For you, too, were of mother born ! 
Forester. Your daughter lives, and 

the Prince is well ! 
You will learn erelong how it all befell. 
Her heart for a moment never failed ; 
But when they reached Salerno's gate. 
The Prince's nobler self prevailed, 
And saved her for a nobler fate. 
And he was healed, in his despair. 
By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred 

bones ; 
Though I think the long ride In the open 

air, 
That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, 
In the miracle must come in for a share ! 
Ursula. Virgin ! who lovest the poor 

and lowly. 
If the loud cry of a mother's heart 
Can ever ascend to where thou art, 
Into thy blessed hands and holy 
Receive my prayer of praise and thanks- 
giving ! 
Let the hands that bore our Saviour 

bear it 
Into the awful presence of God ; 
For thy feet with holiness are shod, 
And if thou bearest it he will hear it. 
Our child who was dead again Is living ! 
Forester. I did not tell you she was 

dead ; 
If you thought so 't was no fault of 

_ mine ; 
At this ven,^ moment, while I speak, 
They are sailing homeward do\\'n the 

Rhine, 
In a splendid barge, with golden prow, 
And decked with banners white and red 



T22 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



As the colors on your daughter's cheek. 
They call her the Lady Alicia now ; 
For the Prince in Salerno made a vow 
That Elsie only would he wed. 

Ursula. Jesu Maria ! w hat a change ! 

All seems to me so weird and strange ! 

Forester. I saw her standing on the 

deck, 
Beneath an awning cool and shady ; 
Her cap of velvet could not hold 
The tresses of her hair of gold, 
That flowed and floated like the stream, 
And fell in masses down her neck. 
As fair and lovely did she seem 
As in a story or a dream 
Some beautiful and foreign lady. 
And the Prince looked so grand and 

proud, 
And waved his hand thus to the crowd 
That gazed and shouted from the shore. 
All down the river, long and loud. 
Ursula. We shall behold our child 

once more ; 
She is not dead ! She is not dead ! 
God, listening, must have overheard 
The prayers, that, without sound or 

word. 
Our hearts in secrecy have said ! 
O, bring me to her ; for mine eyes 
Are hungry to behold her face ; 
My very soul within me cries ; 
My ver>' hands seem to caress her. 
To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; 
Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! 

{Goes out toward the garden.) 

Forester. There goes the good wo- 
man out of her head ; 

And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here ; 

A very capacious flagon of beer. 

And a very portentous loaf of bread. 

One would say his grief did not much 
oppress him. 

Here 's to the health of the Prince, God 
bless him ! 

{He drinks.) 

Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet ! 

And what a scene there, through the 
door ! 

The forest behind and the garden be- 
fore, 

And midway an old man of threescore. 

With a wife and children that caresshim. 



Let me try still further to cheer and 
adorn it 

With a merry, echoing blast of my cor- 
net ! 

{Goes out blowing his horn.) 

The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. 
Prince Henry «;/<2' Elsie standing 
on the terrace at evetwig. The 
sound of bells heard from a distance. 

Prince Henry. We are alone. The 
wedding guests 
Ride down the hill, with plumes and 

cloaks. 
And the descending dark invests 
The Niederwald, and all the nests 
Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 

Elsie. What bells are those, that 
ring so slow. 
So mellow, musical, and low? 

Prijice Henry. They are the bells 
of Geisenheim, 
That with their melancholy chime 
Ring out the curfew of the sun. 

Elsie. Listen, beloved. 

Prince Henry. They are done ! 

Dear Elsie ! many 5'ears ago 
Those same soft bells at eventide 
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 
As, seated by Fastrada's side 
At Ingelheim, in all his pride 
He heard their sound with secret pain. 

Elsie. Their voices only speak to me 
Of peace and deep tranquillity, 
And endless confidence in thee 

Prince HeJiry. Thou knowest the 
story of her ring. 
How, when the court went back to Aix, 
Fastrada died ; and how the king 
Sat watching by her night and day, 
Till into one of the blue lakes. 
Which water that delicious land, 
They cast the ring, drawn from her 

hand ; 
And the great monarch sat serene 
And sad beside the fated shore. 
Nor left the land forevermore. 

Elsie. That was true love. 

Pri?tce He7iry. For him the queen 
Ne'er did what thou hast done for me 

Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faith- 
ful be ? 
Wilt thou so love me after death ? 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



123 



Prince Henry. In life's delight, in 
death's dismay, 
fn storm and sunshine, night and da3% 
"n health, in sickness, in decay, 
Here and hereafter, I am thine ! 
Thou hast Fastrada's ring. ^ Beneath 
The calm, blue waters of thine eyes 
Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 
And, undisturbed by thisworld's breath. 
With magic light its jewels shine ! 
This golden ring, which thou hast worn 
Upon thy finger since the morn, 
■^ but a symbol and a semblance, 
An outward fashion, a remembrance, 
Of wnat thou wearest within unseen, 
O my Fastrada, O my queen ! 
Behold ! the hill-tops all aglow 
With purple and with amethyst ; 
While the whole valley deep below 
Is filled, and seems to overflow, 
With a fast-rising tide of mist. 
The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 

Elsie. Ah, not so soon. 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips. 
And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light, 
And makes the heart in love with night. 

Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace, 
when the day 
Was closing, have I stood and gazed, 
And seen the landscape fade away. 
And the white vapors rise and drown 
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, 
While far above the hill-tops blazed. 
But then another hand than thine 
Was gently held and clasped in mine ; 
Another head upon my breast 
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. 
Why dost thou lift those tender eyes 
With so much sorrow and surprise ? 
A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand. 
Was that which in my own was pressed. 
A manly form usurped thy place, 
A beautiful, but bearded face. 
That now is in the Holy Land, 
Yet in my memory from afar 
Is shining on us like a star. 
But linger not. For while I speak, 
A sheeted spectre white and tall. 
The cold mist climbs the castle wall, 
And lays his hand upon thy cheek ! 
{They go in.) 



EPILOGUE 



THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS AS 
CENDING. 



The Angel of Good Deeds {with 
closed book) God sent his mes- 
senger the rain. 
And said unto the mountain brook, 
" Rise up, and from thy caverns look 
And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, 
From the cool hills into the heat 
Of the broad, arid plain." 

God sent his messenger of faith, 
And whispered in the maiden's heart, 
" Rise up, and look firom where thou 

art, 
And scatter with unselfish hands 
Thy freshness on the barren sands 
And solitudes of Death." 
O beauty of holiness. 
Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness ! 
O power of meekness, 
Whose very gentleness and weakness 
Are like the yielding, but irresistible 

air ! 
Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I bear. 
The deed divine 
Is written in characters of gold, 
That never shall grow old. 
But through all ages 
Burn and shine, 
With soft effulgence ! 
O God ! it is thy indulgence 
That fills the world with the bli^ 
Of a good deed like this ! 

The A ngel of Evil Deeds {with open 

book). Not 3^et, not yet 
Is the red sun wholly set. 
But evermore recedes, 
While open still I bear 
The Book of Evil Deeds, 
To let the breathings of the upper air 
Visit its pages and erase 
The records from its face ! 
Fainter and fainter as I gaze 
In the broad blaze 
The glimmering landscape shines, 
And below me the black river 
Is hidden by wreaths of vapor ! 
Fainter and fainter the black lines 
Begin to quiver 
Along the whitening surface of the 

paper ; 
Shade after shade 



124 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The terrible words grow faint and fade, 
And in their place 
Runs a white space ! 

Down goes the sun ! 

But the soul of one, 

Who by repentance 

Has escaped the dreadful sentence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end ! 

With closed Book 

To God do I ascend. 

Lo ! over the mountain steeps 
A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 
Beneath my feet ; 
A blackness inwardly brightening 
With sullen heat. 



' As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. 
And a cry of lamentation, 
Repeated and again repeated, 
Deep and loud 
As the reverberation 
Of cloud answering unto cloud, 
Swells and rolls away in the distance, 
As if the sheeted 
Lightning retreated. 
Baffled and thwarted by the wind'' 

resistance. 
It is Lucifer, 
The son of mystery ; 
And since God suffers him to be, 
He, too, is God's minister, 
And labors for some good 
3y us not understood 1 



SECOND INTERLUDE 

MARTIN LUTHER. 



MARTIN LUTHER. 



,4 Chamber in the Wartburg. Morn- 
ing. Martin Luther, writing. 

Martin Luther. 

Our God, a Tower of Strength is he, 
A goodly wall and weapon ; 
From all our need he helps us free, 
That now to us doth happen. 

The old evil foe 

Doth in earnest grow, 

In grim armor dight, 

Much guile and great might ; 
On earth there is none like him. 

O yes ; a tower of strength indeed, 
A present help in all our need, 
A sword and buckler is our God. 
Innocent men have walked unshod 
O'er burning ploughshares, and have 

trod 
Unharmed on serpents in their path. 
And laughed to scorn the Devil's 

wrath ! 

Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand 
Where God hath led me by the hand. 
And look down, with a heart at ease, 
Over the pleasant neighborhoods. 
Over the vast Thuringian Woods, 
With flash of river, and gloom of trees. 
With castles crowning the dizzy 

heights. 
And farms and pastoral delights. 
And the morniwg pouring everywhere 
Its golden glory on the air. 
Safe, yes, safe am I here at last. 
Safe from the overwhelming blast 
Of the mouths of Hell, that followed 

me fast, 
And the howling demons of despair 
That hunted me like a beast to his 

lair. 



Of our own might we nothing can •, 
We soon are unprotected ; 
There fighteth for us the right Maii^ 
Whom God himself elected. 

Who is he ; ye exclaim ? 

Christus is his name, 

Lord of Sabaoth, 

Very God in troth ; 
The field he holds forever. 

Nothing can vex the Devil more 
Than the name of Him whom we 

adore. 
Therefore doth it delight me best 
To stand in the choir among the rest, 
With the great organ trumpeting _ 
Through its metallic tubes, and sing : 
Et verbum caro factzmi est I 
These words the Devil cannot endure, 
For he knoweth their meaning well ! 
Him they trouble and repel. 
Us they comfort and allure, 
And happy it were, if our delight 
Were as great as his affright ! 
Yea, music is the Prophets' art ; 
Among the gifts that God hath sent, 
One of the most magnificent ! 
It calms the agitated heart ; 
Temptations, evil thoughts, and all 
The passions that disturb the soul, 
Are quelled by its divine control, 
As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul, 
And his distemper was allayed, 
When David took his harp and played. 

This world may full of Devils be. 
All ready to devour us ; 
Yet not so sore afraid are we, 
They shall not overpower us. 

This World's Prince, howe'er 

Fierce he may appear, 



128 



MARTIN LUTHER. 



He can harm us not, 
He is doomed, God wot ! 
One little word can slay him ! 

Incredible it seems to some 

And to myself a mystery. 

That such weak flesh and blood as w-e, 

Armed with no other shield or sword, 

Or other weapon than the Word, 

Should combat and should overcome, 

A spirit powerful as he I 

He summons forth the Pope of Rome 

With all his diabolic crew, 

His shorn and shaven retinue 

Of priests and children of the dark ; 

Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, 

Who rouseth up all Christendom 

Against us ; and at one fell blow 

Seeks the whole Church to overthrow ! 

Not yet ; my hour is not yet come. 

Yesterday in an idle mood. 
Hunting with others in the wood, 
T did not pass the hours in vain, 
For in the very heart of all 
The joyous tumult raised around. 
Shouting of men, and baying of hound, 
And the bugle's blithe and cheerj' call. 
And echoes answering back again. 
From crags of the distant mountain 

chain, — 
Tn the very heart of this, I found 
A mystery of grief and pain. 
It was an image of the power 
Of Satan, hunting the world about. 
With his nets and traps and well- 
trained dogs, 
His bishops and priests and theo- 

logues, 
And all the rest of the rabble rout, 
Seeking whom he may devour ! 
Enough liave I had of himting hares, 
Enough of these hours of idle mirth, 
Enough of nets and traps and gins ! 
The only hunting of anv worth 
Is where I can pierce with javelins 
The canning foxes and wolves and bears, 
The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, 
The Roman Pope and the Roman 

priests 
That sorely infest and afflict the earth I 

Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air ! 
The fowler hath caught you in his 
snare. 



And keeps you safe in his gilded cage. 
Singing the song that never tires. 
To lure down others from their nests ; 
How ye flutter and beat your breasts, 
Warm and soft with young desires. 
Against the cruel pitiless wires, 
Reclaiming your lost heritage ! 
Behold I a hand unbars the door, 
Ye shall be captives held no more. 

The Word they shall perforce let stand, 
And little thanks they merit ! 
For He is with us in the land. 
With gifts of his own Spirit ! 

Though they take our life. 

Goods, honors, child and wife. 

Let these pass awa}'. 

Little gain have they ; 
The Kingdom still remaineth ! 

Yea, it remaineth forevermore. 
However Satan may rage and roar. 
Though often he whispers in my ears : 
What if thy doctrines false should 

be? 
And wrings from me a bitter sweat. 
Then I put him to flight with jeers, 
Saying : Saint Satan ! pray for me ; 
If thou thinkest I am not saved yet ! 

And my mortal foes that lie in wait 
In every avenue and gate I 
As to that odious monk John Tetzel 
Hawking about his hollow wares 
I^ike a huckster at village fairs. 
And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, 
Campanus, Carlstadt. Martin Cellarius, 
And all the busy, multifarious 
Heretics, and disciples of Arius, 
Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, 
They are not worthy of my regard, 
Poor and humble as I am. 

But ah I Erasmus of Rotterdam, 
He is the vilest miscreant 
That ever walked this world below ! 
A Momus, making his mock and mow 
At papist and at protestant, 
Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, 
At God and Man, at one and all ; 
And yet as hollow and false and drear. 
As a cracked pitcher to the ear, 
And ever growing worse and worse I 



MARTIN LUTHER. 



129 



Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse 
On Erasmus, the Insincere ! 

PhiHp Melancthon ! thou alone 
Faithful among the faithless known, 
Thee I hail, and only thee ! 
Behold the record of us three ! 
Res et verba Philipptcs^ 
Res shie verbis LutJienis ; 
Erasmus verba sine re I 

My Philip, prayest thou for me ? 
Lifted above all earthly care, 
From these high regions of the air, 
Among the birds that day and night 
Upon the branches of tall trees 
Sing their lauds and litanies, 



Praising God with all their might, 
My Philip, unto thee I write. 

My Philip ! thou who knowest best 
All that is passing in this breast ; 
The spiritual agonies, 
The inward deaths, the inward hell, 
And the divine new births as well, 
That surely follow after these, 
As after winter follows spring ; 
My Philip, in the night-time sing 
This song of the Lord I send to thee 
And I will sing it for thy sake, 
Until our answering voices make 
A glorious autiphony, 
And choral chant of victory 1 



PART THREE. 

THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 



I. JOHN ENDICOTT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



John Endicott 
John Endicott . 
Richard Bellingham 
John Norton . 
Edward Butter . 
Walter Merry 
Nicholas Upsall . 
Samuel Cole 
Simon Kempthorn ) 
Ralph Goldsmith ) 

Wenlock Christison ] 
Edith, kis daughter \ 
Edward Wharton ) 



Goverjior. 
his son 

Deputy Governor. 
Minister of the Gospel. 
Treasurer. 
Tithing-77tan. 
a7i old citizen. 
Landlord o/ the Three Mariners, 

Sea- Captains 



Quakers. 



Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, Sr'c. 
The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665, 



PROLOGUE 



To-night we strive to read, as we may 

best, 
This city, like an ancient palimpsest ; 
And bring to light, upon the blotted 

page, 
The mournful record of an earlier age, 
That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden 

away 
Beneath the fresher writing of to-day. 
Rise, then, O buried city that hast 

been ; 
Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene. 
And let our curious eyes behold once 

more 
The pointed gable and the pent-house 

door 
The Meeting-house with leaden-latticed 

panes. 
The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked 

lanes ! 
Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of 

the Past, 
Rise from your long-forgotten graves 

at last ; 
Let us behold your faces, let us hear 
The words ye uttered in those days of 

fear ! 
Revisit your familiar haunts again, — 
The scenes of triumph, and the scenes 

of pain, 
And leave the footprints of your bleed- 
ing feet 
Once more upon the pavement of the 

street ! 
Nor let the Historian blame the Poet 

here. 
If he perchance misdate the day or 

year. 
And group events together, by his art, 



That in the Chronicles lie far apart ; 
For as the double stars, though sun- 
dered far, 
Seem to the naked eye a single star. 
So facts of history, at a distance seen. 
Into one common point of light convene. 
"Why touch upon such themes?" 

perhaps some friend 
May ask, incredulous; "and to what 

good end ? 
Why drag again into the light of day 
The errors of an age long passed 

away ? " 
I answer : " For the lesson that they 

teach ; 
The tolerance of opinion and of speech. 
Hope, Faith, and Charity remain, — 

these three ; 
And greatest of them all is Charity." 
Let us remember, if these words be 

true. 
That unto all men Charity is due ; 
Give what we ask : and pity, while we 

blame. 
Lest we become copartners in the 

shame. 
Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves 

partake, 
And persecute the dead for conscience' 

sake. 
Therefore it is the author seeks and 

strives 
To represent the dead as in their lives. 
And lets at times his characters unfold 
Their thoughts in their own language, 

strong and bold ; 
He only asks of you to do the like ; 
To hear him first, and, if you will, then 

strike. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Sunday afternoon. The 
interior of tiie Meeting-hotcse. 
On the pjdpit, an hour-glass ; be- 
lozu, a box for contributions, John 
Norton in the pulpit. Governor 
Endicott in a ca7iopied seat, at- 
tended by fo2ir halberdiers. The 
congregation singing. 

The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens high ; 

And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

On Cherubim and Seraphim 

Right royally he rode, 
And on the wings of mighty wnds 

Came flying all abroad. 

Norton {rising, and turning the 
hour-glass on the pulpit). I heard 
a great voice from the temple 
saying 

Unto the Seven Angels, Go your ways ; 

Pour out the vials of the wrath of God 

Upon the earth. And the First An- 
gel went 

And poured his vial on the earth ; and 
straight 

There fell a noisome and a grievous 
sore 

On them which had the birth-mark of 
the Beast, 

And them which worshipped and 
adored his image. 

On us hath fallen this grievous pesti- 
lence. 

There is a sense of horror in the air ; 

And apparitions of things horrible 

Are seen by many. From the sky 
above us 

The stars fall ; and beneath us the 
earth quakes I 



The sound of drums at midnight in the 
air. 

The sound of horsemen riding to and 
fro, 

As if the gates of the invisible world 

Were opened, and the dead came forth 
to warn us, — 

All these are omens of some dire dis- 
aster 

Impending over us, and soon to fall. 

Moreover, in the language of the 
Prophet, 

Death is again come up into our win- 
dows. 

To cut off little children from without. 

And young men from the streets. And 
in the midst 

Of all these supernatural threats and 
warnings 

Doth Heresy uplift its horrid head ; 

A vision of Sin more awful and appall- 
ing 

Than any phantasm, ghost, or appari- 
tion, 

As arguing and portending some en- 
largement 

Of the mysterious Power of Darkness ! 

(Edith, barefooted, and clad in sack- 
cloth^ with her hair hangijtg loose 
upo7i hei shozdders, walks slowly up 
the aisle, followed by Wharton and 
other Quakers. The co7igregation 
starts up in confusion-) 

Edith {to Norton, raisi^tg her hand). 

Peace ! 
Norton. Anathema maranatha ! 

The Lord cometh ! 
Edith. Yea, verily he cometh, and 

shall judge 
The shepherds of Israel, who do feed 

themselves. 



140 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



And leave their flocks to eat what they 
have trodden 

Beneath their feet. 
Norton. Be silent, babbhng woman ! 

St. Paul commands all women to keep 
silence 

Within the churches. 

Edith. Yet the women prayed 

And prophesied at Corinth in his day ; 

And, among those on whom the fiery 
tongues 

Of Pentecost descended, some were 
women ! 
Norton. The Elders of the Church- 
es, by our law, 

Alone have power to open the doors of 
speech 

And silence in the Assembly. I com- 
mand you ! 
Edith. The law of God is greater 
than your laws ! 

Ye build your church with blood, your 
town with crime ; 

The heads thereof give judgment for 
reward ; 

The priests thereof teach only for their 
hire ; 

Your laws condemn the innocent to 
death ; 

And against this I bear my testimony ! 
Nortojt. What testimony ? 
Edith. That of the Holy Spirit, 

Which, as your Calvin says, surpasseth 
reason. 
Norton. The laborer is worthy of 

his hire. 
Edith. Yet our great Master did 
not teach for hire. 

And the Apostles without purse or scrip 

Went forth to do his work. Behold 
this box 

Beneath thy pulpit. Is It for the poor? 

Thou canst not answer. It is for the 
Priest ; 

And against this I bear my testimony. 
Norton. Away with all these Here- 
tics and Quakers ! 

Quakers, forsooth ! Because a quak- 
ing fell 

On Daniel, at beholding of the Vision, 

Must ye needs shake and quake ? Be- 
cause Isaiah 

Went stripped and barefoot, must ye 
wail and howl ? 



Must ye go stripped and naked .-* must 

ye make 
A wailing like the dragons, and a 

mourning 
As of the owls ? Ye verify the adage 
That Satan is God's ape ! Away with 

them ! 

{Tumult. The Quakers are driven 
out tvith violejice, Edith following 
slowly. The congregation retires in 
confusion. ) 

Thus freely do the Reprobates com- 
mit 
Such measure of iniquity as fits them 
For the intended measure of God's 

wrath, 
And even in violating God's commands 
Are they fulfilling the divine decree ! 
The will of man is but an instrument 
Disposed and predetermined to its 

action 
According unto the decree of God, 
Being as much subordinate thereto 
As is the axe unto the hewer's hand ! 

{He descendsfrojn the pulpit., and joins 
Governor Endicott, who comes 
forward to vteet him.) 

The omens and the wonders of the 

time, 
Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, and 

disease. 
The blast of corn, the death of our 

young men. 
Our sufferings in all precious, pleasant 

things. 
Are manifestations of the wrath divine, 
Signs of God's controversy with New 

England. 
These emissaries of the Evil One, 
These servants and ambassadors of 

Satan, 
Are but commissioned executioners 
Of God's vindictive and deserved dis- 
pleasure. 
We must receive them as the Roman 

Bishop 
Once received Attila, saying, I rejoice 
You have come safe, whom I esteem 

to be 
The scourge of God, sent to chastise 

his people. 
This very heresy, perchance, may serve 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



141 



The purposes of God to some good end. 

With you Heave it ; but do not neglect 

The holy tactics of the civil sword. 
Endicott. And what more can be 

done? 
Norton. The hand that cut 

The Red Cross from the colors of the 
king 

Can cut the red heart fi-om this heresy. 

Fear not. All blasphemies immedi- 
ate 

And heresies turbulent must be sup- 
pressed 

By civil power, 
Endicott. But in what way sup- 

pressed ? 
Norton. The Book of Deuteronomy 
declares 

That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy 
wife, 

Ay, or the friend which is as thine own 
soul, 

Entice thee secretly, and say to thee, 

Let us serve other gods, then shall 
thine eye 

Not pity him, but thou shalt surely 
kill him. 

And thine own hand shall be the first 
upon him 

To slay him. 
Endicott. Four already have been 
slain ; 

And others banished upon pain of 
death. 

But they come back again to meet 
their doom. 

Bringing the linen for their winding- 
sheets. 

We must not go too far. In truth, I 
shrink 

From shedding of more blood. The 
people murmur 

At our severity. 
Norton. Then let them murmur ! 

Truth is relentless ! justice never 
wavers ; 

The greatest firmness is the greatest 
mercy ; 

The noble order of the Magistracy 

Cometh immediately from God, and 
yet 

This noble order of the Magistracy 

Is by these Heretics despised and out- 
raged. 



Ejidicott. To-night they sleep in 

prison. If they die, 
They cannot say that we have caused 

their death. 
We do but guard the passage, with the 

sword 
Pointed towards them ; if they dash 

upon it. 
Their blood will be on their own heads, 

not ours. 
Nortofi. Enough, I ask no more. 

My predecessor 
Coped only with the milder heresies 
Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists. 
He was not bom to wrestle with these 

fiends. 
Chrysostom in his pulpit : Augustine 
In disputation ; Timothy in his house ! 
The lantern of St. Botolph's ceased to 

burn 
When from the portals of that church 

he came 
To be a burning and a shining light 
Here in the wilderness. And, as he 

lay 
On his death-bed, he saw me in a 

vision 
Ride on a snow-white horse into this 

town. 
His vision was prophetic ; thus I came, 
A terror to the impenitent, and Death 
On the pale horse of the Apocalypse 
To all the accursed race of Heretics ! 
[Exetoit. 

Scene II. — A street. O71 one side, 
Nicholas Upsall's ^<?7^jr^; 071 the 
other, Walter Merry's, ivith a 
flock of pigeo7is on the roof. Cp- 
SALL seated in the porch of his 
honse. 

Upsall. O day of rest ! How beau- 
tiful, how fair. 

How welcome to the weary and the old ! 

Day of the Lord ! and truce to earthly 
cares I 

Day of the Lord, as all our days should 
be ! 

Ah, why will man by his austerities 

Shut out the blessed sunshine and the 
light. 

And make of thee a dungeon of de- 
spair ! 



142 



THE NEW-ENGLAXD TRAGEDIES. 



M'alter Merry {enter i fig; a7id look- 
ing round him). Ail silent as a 
graveyard ! No one stirring ; 

No footfall in the street, no sound of 
voices ! 

By righteous punishment and persever- 
ance, 

And perseverance in that punishment. 

At last I 've brought this contumacious 
town 

To strict observance of the Sabbath 
day. 

Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons 
yonder, 

Are now the only Sabbath-breakers 
left. 

I cannot put them down. As if to 
taunt me, 

They gather every Sabbath afternoon 

In noisy congregation on my roof, 

Billing and cooing. Whir I take that, 
ye Quakers. 

{Thro'ws a stone at the pigeons. Sees 
Upsall.) 

Ah ! Master Nicholas ! 

Upsall. Good afternoon, 

Dear neighbor Walter. 

Merry. Master Nicholas, 

Vou have to-day withdrawn yourself 
from meeting. 
Upsall. Yea, I have chosen rather 
to worship God 
Sitting in silence here at my own 
door. 
Merry. Worship the Devil ! You 
this day have broken 
Three of our strictest laws. First, by 

abstaining 
From public worship. Secondly, by 

walking 
Profanely on the Sabbath. 

Upsall. Not one step. 

I have been sitting still here, seemg 

the pigeons 
Feed in the street and fly about the 
roofs. 
Merry. You have been in the street 
with other intent 
Than going to and from the Meeting- 
house. 
And, thirdly, you are harboring Qua- 
kers here. 
T am amazed I 



Upsall. Men sometimes, it is said, 
Entertain angels unawares. 

Merry. Nice angels ! 

Angels in broad-brimmed hats and 

russet cloaks. 
The color of the Devil's nutting-bag ! 

They came 
Into the Meeting-house this afternoon 
More in the shape of devils than of 

angels ; 
The women screamed and fainted ; 

and the boys 
Made such an uproar in the gallery 
I could not keep them quiet. 

Upsall. Neighbor Walter, 

Your persecution is of no avail. 
Merry. '1'is prosecution, as the 

Governor says. 
Not persecution. 

Upsall. Well, your prosecution ; 

Your hangings do no good. 

Merry. The reason is, 

We do not hang enough. But, mark 

my words. 
We '11 scour them ; yea, I warrant ye, 

we '11 scour them I 
And now go in and entertain your an- 
gels, 
And don't be seen here in the street 

again 
Till after sundown ! — There they are 

again I 

{Exit Upsall. Merry throivs an- 
other stone at the pigeons, and then 
goes into his house.) 

Scene III. — A rootn in Upsall's 
house. Xight. Edith, Wharton, 
atid other Quakers, seated at a table. 
Upsall seated 7iear them. Sev- 
eral books on tJte table. 

Wharton^ William and Marmaduke, 
our martyred brothers, 

Sleep in untimely graves, if aught un- 
timely 

Can find place in the providence of 
God, 

Where nothing comes too early or too 
late. 

I saw their noble death. They to the 
scaffold 

Walked hand in hand. Two hundred 
armed men 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



M3 



And many horsemen guarded them, 

for fear 
Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts 

were stirred. 
Edith. O holy martyrs ! 
Whartoji. When they tried to speak, 
Their voices by the roll of drums were 

drowned. 
When they were dead they still looked 

fresh and fair, 
The terror of death was not upon their 

faces. 
Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek 

woman, 
Has passed through martyrdom to her 

reward ; 
Exclaiming, as they led her to her 

death, 
" These many days I 've been in Para- 
dise." 
And, when she died, Priest W^ilson 

threw the hangman 
His handkerchief, to cover the pale 

face 
He dared not look upon. 

Edith. As persecuted, 

Yet not forsaken ; as unknown, yet 

known ; 
As dying, and behold we are alive ; 
As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing alway ; 
As having nothing, yet possessing all ! 
Wharton. And Leddra, too, is dead. 

But from his prison. 
The day before his death, he sent 

these words 
Unto the little flock of Christ : *' Wliat- 

ever 
May come upon the followers of the 

Light,— 
Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness, 
Or perils in the city or the sea, 
Or persecution, or even death itself, — 
I am persuaded that God's armor of 

Light, 
As it is loved and lived in, will pre- 
serve you. 
Yea, death itself; through which you 

will find entrance 
Into the pleasant pastures of the fold, 
Where you shall feed forever as the 

herds 
That roam at large in the low valleys 

of Achor. 
And as the flowing of the ocean fills 



Each creek and branch thereof, and 
then retires, 

Leaving behind a sweet and whole- 
some savor ; 

So doth the virtue and the life of God 

Flow evermore into the hearts of those 

Whom he hath made partakers of his 
nature ; 

And, when it but withdraws itself a 
little. 

Leaves a sweet savor after it, that 
many 

Can say they are made clean by every 
word 

That he hath spoken to them in their 
silence." 

Edith {rising, afid breaking iido a 
kind of chant). Truly we do but 
grope here in the dark, 

Near the partition-wall of Life and 
Death, 

At every moment dreading or desiring 

To lay our hands upon the unseen door ! 

Let us, then, labor for an inward still- 
ness, — 

An inward stillness and an inward heal- 
ing ; 

That perfect silence wliere the lips and 
heart 

Are still, and we no longer entertain _ 

Our own imperfect thoughts and vain 
opinions. 

But God alone speaks in us, and we 
wait 

In singleness of heart, that we may 
know 

His will, and in the silence of our 
spirits, 

That we may do His will, and do that 
only ! 

(^A long patise, interrupted by the 
sound of a drwn approaching ; 
then shoids 171 the street., and a 
loud k7io eking at the door.) 

Marshal. Within there ! Open the 

door ! 
Merry. Will no one answer? 

Marshal. In the King's name ! 

Within there ! 
Merry. Open the door ! 

Upsall {front the window). It is 

not barred. Come in. Nothing 

prevents you. 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



The poor man's door is ever on the 

latch. 
He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out 

thieves ; 
He fears no enemies, and has no 

friends 
Importunate enough to turn the key 

upon them ! 

{Enter ]ou-s Endicott, the Marshal, 
Merry, and a crowd. Seeing the 
Quakers silent a7id unmoved, they 
paitse, awe-struck. Endicott oJ>po- 
site Edith.) 

Marshal. In the King's name do I 
arrest you all ! 
Away with them to prison. Master 

Upsall, 
You are again discovered harboring 

here 
These ranters and disturbers of the 

peace. 
You know the law. 

Upsall. I know it, and am ready 
To suffer yet again its penalties. 

Edith {to Endicott). Why dost thou 
persecute me, Saul of Tarsus? 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — John Endicott's rooin. 
Early vtorning. 

John Endicott. " Why dost thou 
persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?" 

All night these words were ringing in 
mine ears ! 

A sorrowful sweet face ; a look that 
pierced me 

With meek reproach ; a voice of resig- 
nation 

That had a life of suffering in its tone ; 

And that was all ! And yet I could not 
sleep. 

Or, when I slept, I dreamed that awful 
dream ! 

I stood beneath the elm-tree on the 
Common 

On which the Quakers have been 
hanged, and heard 

A voice, not hers, that cried amid the 
darkness. 



" This is Aceldama, the field of blood ! 
I will have mercy, and not sacrifice I " 

{Opens the window., and looks out.) 

The sun is up already ; and my heart 
Sickens and sinks within rae when I 

think 
How many tragedies will be enacted 
Before his setting. As the earth rolls 

round, 
It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel. 
Upon whose whirling spokes we are 

bound fast, 
And must go with it ! Ah, how briglu 

the sun 
Strikes on the sea and on the masts of 

vessels, 
That are uplifted in the morning air. 
Like crosses of some peaceable crusade ! 
It makes me long to sail for lands un- 
known, 
No matter whither ! Under me, in 

shadow, 
Gloomy and narrow lies the little town, 
Still sleeping, but to wake and toil 

awhile, 
Then sleep again. How dismal looks 

the prison. 
How grim and sombre in the sunless 

street, — 
The prison where she sleeps, or wakes 

and waits 
For what I dare not think of, — death, 

perhaps ! 
A word that has been said may be un- 
said : 
It is but air. But when a deed is 

done 
It cannot be undone, nor can our 

thoughts 
Reach out to all the mischiefs that 

may follow. 
'Tis time for morning prayers. I will 

go down. 
My father, though severe, is kind and 

just ; 
And when his heart is tender with de- 
votion, — 
When from his lips have fallen the 

words, " Forgive us 
As we forgive," — then will I intercede 
For these poor people, and perhaps 

may save them. 

{Exit. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



145 



Scene II. — Dock Sqtiare- On one 
side, the tavern of the Three Mari- 
7ters. In the backg-round, a quaint 
building with gables ; and, beyond it, 
wharves and shipping. Captain 
Kempthorn and others seated at a 
table be/ore the door. Samuel Cole 
standing near theni. 

Kempthorn. Come, drink about ! 
Remember Parson Melham, 
And bless the man who first invented 
flip! 

{They drink.) 

Cole. Pray, Master Kempthorn, 

where were you last night? 
Kempthorn. On board the Swallow, 
Simon Kempthorn, master. 
Up for Barbadoes, and the Windward 
Islands. 
Cole^ The town was in a tumult. 
Kempthor7t. And for what ? 

Cole. Your Quakers were arrested. 
Kempthorn. How my Quakers? 

Cole. Those you brought in your 
vessel from Barbadoes. 
They made an uproar in the Meeting- 
house 
Yesterday, and they 're now in prison 

for it. 
I owe you little thanks for bringing 

them 
To the Three Mariners. 
Kempthorn. I'hey have 

not harmed you- 
I tell you, Goodman Cole, that Quaker 

girl 
Is precious as a sea-bream's eye. I 

tell you 
It was a lucky day when first she set 
Her little foot upon the Swallow's 

deck. 
Bringing good luck, fair winds, and 
pleasant weather. 
Cole. I am a law-abiding citizen ; 
I have a seat in the new Meeting- 
house, 
A cow-right on the Common ; and, be- 
sides. 
Am corporal in the Great Artillery. 
I rid me of the vagabonds at once. 
Kempthorn. Why should you not 
have Quakers at your tavern 
If you have fiddlers ? 

lO 



Cole. Never ! never ! never ! 

If you want fiddling you must go else- 
where, 

To the Green Dragon and the Admiral 
Vernon, 

And other such disreputable places. 

But the Three Mariners is an orderly 
house. 

Most orderly, quiet, and respectable. 

Lord Leigh said he could be as quiet 
here 

As at the Governor's. And have I 
not 

King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, 
all framed and glazed, 

Hanging in my best parlor ? 
Kempthorn- Here 's a health 

To good King Charles. Will you not 
drink the King ? 

Then drink confusion to old Parson 
Palmer, 
Cole. And who is Parson Palmer? 

I don't know him. 
Kem,pthorn. He had his cellar un- 
derneath his pulpit, 

And so preached o'er his liquor, just as 
you do. 

{A drum within.) 

Cole. Here comes the Marshal. 
Merry {within). Make room for 

the Marshal. 
Kempthorn. How pompous and im- 
posing he appears ! 
His great buff doublet bellying like a 

mainsail. 
And all his streamers fluttering in the 

wind. 
What holds he in his hand ? 

Cole. A Proclamation. 

{Enter the Marshal, with aproclama- 
tion ; and Merry, with a halberd. 
They are preceded by a drumtner, 
and followed by the hangmajt, with 
ati armftd of books, and a crowd of 
people, am.ong whom are Upsall 
and John Endicott. A pile is 
made of the books.) 

Merry. Silence, the drum ! Good 

citizens, attend 
To the new laws enacted by the Court. 
Marshal {reads) " Whereas a oiirsed 

sect of Heretics 



146 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Has lately risen, commonly called 
Quakers, 

Who take upon themselves to be com- 
missioned 

Immediately of God, and furthermore 

Infallibly assisted by the Spirit 

To write and utter blasphemous opin- 
ions. 

Despising Government and the order 
of God 

In Church and Commonwealth, and 
speaking evil 

Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling 

The Magistrates and Ministers, and 
seeking 

To turn the people from their faith, 
and thus 

Gain proselytes to their pernicious 
ways ; — 

This Court, considering the premises. 

And to prevent like mischief as is 
wrought 

By their means in our land, doth here- 
by order, 

That whatsoever master or commander 

Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall 
bring 

To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or 
_ cove 

Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, 

Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall 
pay 

Unto the Treasurer of the Common- 
wealth 

One hundred pounds, and for default 
thereof 

Be put in prison, and continue there 

Till the said sum be satisfied and paid.'* 
Cole. Now, Simon Kempthorn, what 

say you to that ? 
Kenipthor7i. I pray you, Cole, lend 

me a hundred pound ! 
Marshal {reads). " If any one with- 
in this Jurisdiction 

Shall henceforth entertain, or shall 
conceal 

Quakers, or other blasphemous Here- 
tics, 

Knowing them so to be, every such 
person 

Shall forfeit to the country forty shil- 
lings 

For each hour's entertainment or con- 
cealment, 



And shall be sent to prison, as afore- 
said, 
Until the forfeiture be wholly paid." 

{Murjn7irs in the crowd. ) 

Kempthorn. Now, Goodman Cole, 

I think your turn has come ! 
Cole. Knowing them so to be ! 
Kejupthorn. At forty shillings 

The hour, your fine will be some forty 

pound ! 
Cole. Knowing them so to be ! 

That is the law. 
Marshal {reads). " And it is further 

ordered and enacted. 
If any Quaker or Quakers shall pre- 
sume 
To come henceforth into this Jurisdic- 
tion, 
Every male Quaker for the first offence 
Shall have one ear cut off; and shall 

be kept 
At labor in the Workhouse, till such 

time 
As he be sent away at his own charge. 
And for the repetition of the offence 
Shall have his other ear cut off, and 

then 
Be branded in the palm of his right 

hand. 
And every woman Quaker shall be 

whipt 
Severely in three towns ; and every 

Quaker, 
Or he or she, that shall for a third 

time 
Herein again offend, shall have their 

tongues 
Bored through with a hot iron, and 

shall be 
Sentenced to Banishment on pain of 

Death." 

{Lotid murmurs. The voice oj" 
Christison in tlie crowd.) 

O patience of the Lord! How long, 

how long, 
Ere Thou avenge the blood of Thine 
Elect ? 
Merry. Silence, there, silence ! Do 

not break the peace ! 
Marshal {reads). " Every inhabi- 
tant of this Jurisdiction 
Who shall defend the horrible opinions 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



H7 



Of Quakers, by denying due respect 
To equals and superiors, and withdraw- 
ing 
From Church Assemblies, and thereby 

approving 
The abusive and destructive practices 
Of this accursed sect, in opposition 
To all the orthodox received opinions 
Of godly men, shall be forthwith com- 
mitted 
Unto close prison for one month ; and 

then 
Refusing to retract and to reform 
The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be 
Sentenced to Banishment on pain of 

Death. 
By the Court. Edward Rawson, Sec- 
retary." 
Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn 
those books. 

{Loud ^nurnmrs in the crowd. The 
pile of books is lighted.) 

Upsall. I testify against these cruel 

laws ! 
Forerunners are they of some judgment 

on us ; 
And, in the love and tenderness I bear 
Unto this town and people, I beseech 

you, 

Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be 

found 
As fighters against God ! 

yohn Endicott {taking UpsalVs 
hand) Upsall, I thank you 
For speaking words such as some 
younger man, 

1 or another, should have said before 

you. 
Such 'laws as these are cruel and op- 
pressive ; 
A blot on this fair town, and a disgrace 
To any Christian people. 

Merry {aside liste7ting behind them). 

Here 's sedition ! 
I never thought that any good would 

come 
Of this young popmjay, with his long 

hair 
And his great boots, fit only for the 

Russians 
Or barbarous Indians, as his father says ! 
The Voice. Woe to the bloody town ! 

And rightfully 



Men call it the Lost Town ! The 

blood of Abel 
Cries from the ground, and at the final 

judgment 
The Lord will say, " Cain, Cain ! 

where is thy brother? " 
Merry. Silence there in the crowd ! 
Upsall {aside). 'T is Christison ! 

'I he Voice. O foolish people, ye 

that think to burn 
And to consume the truth of God, I tell 

you 
That every flame is a loud tongue of 

fire 
To publish it abroad to all the world 
Louder than tongues of men ! 

Ker}tpthorn {springing to his feet). 

Well said, my hearty ! 
There 's a brave fellow ! There 's a 

man of pluck ! 
A man who 's not afraid to say his say, 
Though a whole town 's against him. 

Rain, rain, rain, 
Bones of St. Botolph, and put out this 

fire! 

{The drum beats. Exeunt all but 
Merry, Kempthorn, and Cole.) 

Merry. And now that matter *s 
ended, Goodman Cole, 
Fetch me a mug of ale, your strongest 
ale. 
Ke7npthorn{s'tting doivn). And me 
another mug of flip ; and put 
Two gills of brandy in it. 

{Exit Cole. 
Merry. No ; no more. 

Not a drop more, I say. You 've had 
enough. 
Kempthorti. And who are you, sir? 
Merry' I'm a Tithing-man, 

And Merry is my name. 

Kempthorn. A merry name ! 

I like it ; and I '11 drink your merry 

health 
Till all is blue. 

Merry. And then you will be clapped 
Into the stocks, with the red letter D 
Hung round about your neck for drunk- 
enness. 
You're a free-drinker, — yes, and a free- 
thinker ! 
Kempthorn. And you are Andrew- 
Merry, or Merry Andrew. 



148 



THE XEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 



Merry. My name is Walter Merry, 

and not Andrew. 
Kempthorju Andrew or Walter, 
you 're a merry fellow ; 
I Ml swear to that. 

Merry. No swearing, let me tell you. 
The other day one Shorthose had his 

tongue 
Put into a cleft stick for profane swear- 
ing. 

(Cole brings the ale.) 

Ketnpthorft. Well, where 's my flip ? 
As sure as my name 's Kemp- 
thorn — 
Merry. Is your name Kempthorn ? 
Kempthorn. That 's the name I go 

by. 
Merry. What, Captain Simon Kemp- 
thorn of the Swallow? 
Kevipthont. No other. 
Merry {touching him on the shoul- 
der). Then you 're wanted. I 
arrest you 
In the King's name. 

Kempthorn. And where 's your 

warrant ? 
Merry {nn/oldin^ a paper, and 
readifig). Here. 
Listen to me. *' Hereby you are re- 
quired, 
In the King's name, to apprehend the 

body 
Of Simon Kempthorn, mariner, and him 
Safely to bring before me, there to an- 
swer 
All such objections as are laid to him, 
Touching the Quakers." Signed, John 
Endicott. 
Kempthorn. Has it the Governor's 

seal ? 
Merry. Ay, here it is. 

Kempthor7i. Death's head and cross- 
bones That 's a pirate's flag ! 
Merry. Beware how you revile the 
Magistrates ; 
You may be whipped for that. 

Kempthorn. Then mum 's the word. 

{Exeunt Merry and Kempthorn.) 

Cole. There 's mischief brewing ! 
Sure, there 's mischief brewing ! 
I feel like Master Josselyn when he 
found 



The hornet's nest, and thought it some 

strange fruit. 
Until the seeds came out, and then he 

dropped it. [Exit. 



ScEN'E III. — A room in the Gover- 
nor'' s house. Enter Governor En- 
dicott and Merrv. 

Endicott. My son, you say? 
Merry. Your Worship's eldest son. 
Endicott. .Speaking against the laws ? 
Merry. Ay, worshipful sir. 

Endicott. And in the public market- 
place? 
Merry. I saw him 

With my own eyes, heard him with my 
own ears. 
Endicott. Impossible ! 
Merry. He stood 

there in the crowd 
With Nicholas Upsall, when the laws 

were read 
To-day against the Quakers, and I 

heard him 
Denounce and vilipend them as un- 
just, 
As cruel, wicked, and abominable. 
Endicott. Ungrateful son ! O God ! 
thou layest upon me 
A burden heavier than I can bear ! 
Surely the power of Satan must be 

great 
Upon the earth, if even the elect 
Are thus deceived and fall away from 
grace ! 
Merry. Worshipful sir ! I meant no 

harm — 
Endicott. 'T is well. 

You 've done your duty, though you 've 

done it roughly. 
And every word you 've uttered since 

you came 
Has stabbed me to the heart ! 

Merry. I do beseech 

Your Worship's pardon ! 

Endicott. He whom I have nurtured 
And brought up in the reverence of the 

Lord! 
The child of all my hopes and my affec- 
tions ! 
He upon whom I leaned as a sure 
staff 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



149 



For my old age ! It is God's chastise- 
ment 
For leaning upon any arm but His ! 
Merry. Your Worship ! — 
Endicott. And this comes from hold- 
ing parley 
With the delusions and deceits of Satan, 
At once, forever, must they be crushed 

out. 
Or all the land will reek with heresy ! 
Pray, have you any children ? 
Merry. No, not any. 

Endicott. Thank God for that. He 
has delivered you 
From a great care. Enough ; my pri- 
vate griefs 
Too long have kept me from the public 
service. 

{Exit Merry, Endicott seats hii7i- 
self at the table and arranges his 
papers. ) 

The hour has come : and I am eager now 
To sit in judgment on these Heretics. 

{A knock?} 

Come in. Who is it ? i^Not looking iip. ) 
John Endicott. It is I. 
Endicott {restraining himself). Sit 

down ! 
John Endicott {sitting down). I 
come to intercede for these poor 
people 
Who are in prison, and await their trial. 
Endicott. It is of them I wish to 
speak with you. 
I have been angry with you, but 't is 

passed. 
For when I hear your footsteps come or 

See m your features your dead mother's 

^ face. 
And in your voice detect some tone of 

hers. 
All anger vanishes, and T remember 
'i'he days that are no more, and come no 

more. 
When as a child you sat upon my knee, 
And prattled of your playthings, and the 

games 
You played among the pear-trees in the 

orchard I 
John Endicott. O, let the memory 

of my noble mother 



Plead with you to be mild and merciful ! 
For mercy more becomes a Magistrate 
Than the vindictive wrath which men 

call justice ! 
Endicott. The sin of heresy is a 

deadly sin. 
'T is like the falling of the snow, whose 

crystals 
The traveller plays with, thoughtless of 

his danger. 
Until he sees the air so full of light 
That it is dark ; and blindly staggering 

onward, 
Lost, and bewildered, he sits down to 

rest ; 
There falls a pleasant drowsiness upon 

him, 
And what he thinks is sleep, alas ! is 

death. 
John Endicott. An d yet wh o is th ere 

that has never doubted ? 
And, doubting and believing, has not 

said, 
" Lord, I believe ; help thou my un- 
belief"? 
Endicott. In the same way we trifle 

with our doubts. 
Whose shining shapes are like the stars 

descending ; 
Until at last, bewildered and dismayed, 
Blinded by that which seemed to give 

us light. 
We sink to sleep, and find that it is 

death {rising)., 
Death to the soul through all eternity ! 
Alas that I should see you growing up 
To man's estate, and in the admonition 
And nurture of the Law, to find you now 
Pleading for Heretics ! 

John Endicott {rising). In the sight 

of God, 
Perhaps all men are Heretics, Who 

dares 
To say that he alone has found the 

truth ? 
We cannot always feel and think and act 
As those who go before us. Had you 

done so. 
You would not now be here. 

Endicott. Have you forgotten 

The doom of Heretics, and the fate of 

those 
Who aid and comfort them ? Have 

you forgotten 



15° 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES, 



That in the market-place this very day 
You trampled on the laws? What 

right have you, 
An inexperienced and untravelled 

youth, 
To sit in judgment here upon the acts 
Of older men and wiser than yourself, 
Thus stirring up sedition in the streets, 
And making me a byword and a jest ? 
John Ejidicott. Words of an inexpe- 
rienced youth like me 
Were powerless if the acts of older men 
Went not before them. 'T is these 

laws themselves 
Stir up sedition, not my judgment of 

them. 
Endicott. Take heed, lest I be called, 
as Brutus was, 
Tobethejudgeofmyownson ! Begone ! 
When you are tired of feeding upon 

husks, 
Return again to duty and submission. 
But not till then. 
John Endicott. I hear and I obey ! 

lExit. 
Endicott. O happy, happy they who 

have no children ! 
He 's gone ! I hear the hall door shut 

behind him. 
It sends a dismal echo through my heart. 
As if forever it had closed between us, 
And I should look upon his face no 

more ! 
O, this will drag me down into my 

grave, — 
To that eternal resting-place wherein 
Man lieth down, and riseth not again ! 
Till the heavens be no more he shall 

not wake, 
Nor be roused from his sleep ; for Thou 

dost change 
His countenance, and sendest him 



away 



lExit. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Court of Assistants. 
Endicott, Bellixgham, Atheh- 
TON, and other tnagist rates. Kemp- 
thorn, Merry, afid constables- 
Afterwards Wharton, Edith, and 
Christison. 



Endicott. Call 
Kempthorn. 



Captain Simon 



Merry. Simon Kempthorn, 

Come to the bar ! 

(Kempthorn comes forward.) 

Endicott. You are accused of bring- 
ing 
Into this Jurisdiction, from Barba- 

does. 
Some persons of that sort and sect of 

people 
Known by the name of Quakers, and 

maintaining 
Most dangerous and heretical opin- 
ions ; 
Purposely coming here to propagate 
Their heresies and errors ; bringing 

vvith them 
And spreading sundry books here, 

which contain 
Their doctrines most corrupt and 

blasphemous. 
And contrary to the truth professed 

among us. 
What say you to this charge ? 

Kempthorn. I do acknowledge. 

Among the passengers on board the 

Swallow 
Were certain persons saying Thee and 

Thou. 
They seemed a harmless people, most- 
ways silent. 
Particularly when they said their 

prayers. 
Endicott. Harmless and silent a^ 

the pestilence ! 
You 'd better have brought the fever or 

the plague 
Among us in your ship ! Therefore, 

this Court, 
For preservation of the Peace and 

Truth, 
Hereby commands you speedily to 

transport. 
Or cause to be transported speedily, 
The aforesaid persons hence unto Bar- 

badoes, 
From whence they came ; you paying 

all the charges 
Of their imprisonment. 

Kempthorji. Worshipful sir, 

No ship e'er prospered that has carried 

Quakers 
Against their will ! I knew a vessel 

once — 



70 HX EXDICOTT. 



151 



Endicott And for the more effec- i 
tual performance 
Hereof you are to give security 
In bonds amounting to one hundred 

pounds. 
On your refusal, you will be committed 
To prison till you do it. 

Kempthorji. But you see 

I cannot do it. The law, sir, of Bar- 

badoes 
Forbids the landing Quakers on the 
island. 
Endicott. Then you will be com- 
mitted. Who comes next? 
Merry. There is another charge 

against the Captain. 
Endicott. What is it? 
Merry. Profane swear- 

ing, please your Worship. 
He cursed and swore from Dock 
Square to the Court-house. 
Endicott. Then let him stand in 
the pillory for one hour. 

{Exit Kempt HORN with co7istable.) 

Who's next? 

Merry. The Quakers. 

Endicott. Call them. 

Merry. Edward Wharton, 

Come to the bar ! 

Wharto7i. Yea, even to the bench. 

E^idicott. Take off your hat. 
Wharton. jNIy hat otfendeth not. 
If it offendeth any, let him take it ; 
For I shall not resist. 

Endicott. Take off his hat. 

Let him be fined ten shillings for con- 
tempt. 

(Merry takes ^Wharton's hat.) 

IV^harton. What evil have I done ? 
Endicott. Your hair 's too long ; 

And in not putting off 3'our hat to us 
You 've disobeyed and broken that 

commandment 
Which sayeth " Honor thy father and 
thy mother." 
Wharton. John Endicott, thou art 
become too proud ; 
And 'ovest him who putteth off the hat. 
And honoreth thee by bowing of the 

body, 
And sayeth "Worshipful sir!" 'T is 
time for thee 



To give such follies over, for thou 

mayest 
Be drawing very near unto thy grave. 
Endicott. Now, sirrah, leave your 

canting. Take the oath. 
Wharton. Nay, sirrah me no sir- 
rah s ! 
Endicott. Will you swear? 

Wharton. Nay, I will not. 
E?tdicott. You 

made a great disturbance 
And uproar yesterday in the Meeting- 
house, 
Having your hat on. 

Wharton. I made no disturbance ; 
For peacefully I stood, like other peo- 
ple. 
I spake no words ; moved against none 

my hand ; 
But by the hair they haled me out, and 

dashed 
Their books into my face. 

Ejidicott. You, Edward Wharton, 
On pain of death, depart this Jurisdic- 
tion 
Within ten days. Such is your sen- 
tence. Go. 
WJiarton. John Endicott, it had 
been well for thee 
If this day's doings thou hadst left un- 
done. 
But, banish me as far as thou hast 

power. 
Beyond the guard and presence of my 

God 
Thou canst not banish me ! 

Endicott. Depart the Court ; 

We have no time to listen to your bab- 
ble. 
Who 's next ? {Exit Wharton. 

Merry. This woman, for the same 
offence. 

(Edith covies foriuard.) 

Endicott. What is your name ? 

Edith. 'T is to the world unknown, 
But written in the Book of Life. 

Endicott. _ Take heed 

It be not written in the Book of Death ! 
What is it ? 

Edith. Edith Christison. 

Endicott {with eagerness). The 
daughter 
Of Wenlock Christison? 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Edith. I am his daughter. 

Endicott. Your father hath given 
us trouble many times. 
A bold man and a violent, v^'ho sets 
At naught the authority of our Church 

and State, 
And is in banishment on pain of death. 
Where are you living ? 

Edith. In the Lord. 

Endicott. Make answer 

Without evasion. Where ? 

Edith. My outward being 

Is in Barbadoes. 
Endicott. Then why come you here ? 
Edith. I come upon an errand of 

the Lord. 
Endicott. 'T is not the business of 
the Lord you 're doing ; 
It is the Devil's. Will you take the 

oath? 
Give her the Book. 

(Merry offers the Book.) 

Edith. You offer me this Book 

To swear on ; and it saith, " Swear not 

at all, 
Neither by heaven, because it is God's 

Throne, 
Nor by the earth, because it is his 

footstool ! " 
I dare not swear. 
Endicott. You dare not ? Yet 

you Quakers 
Deny this Book of Holy Writ, the 

Bible, 
To be the Word of God. 
Edith {reverentially). Christ is the 
Word, 
The everlasting oath of God. I dare 
not. 
Endicott. You own yourself a Quaker, 

— do you not ? 
Edith. I own that in derision and 
reproach 
1 am so called. 
Endicott. Then you deny the Scrip- 
ture 
To be the rule of life. 

Edith. Yea, I believe 

The Inner Light, and not the Written 

Word, 
To be the rule of life. 

Endicott. And you deny 

That the Lord's Day is holy. 



Edith. Every dat 

Is the Lord's Day. It runs through 
all our lives, 

As through the pages of the Holy Bible 

" Thus saith the Lord." 

Endicott. You are accused of making 

An horrible disturbance, and affrighting 

The people in the Meeting-house on 
Sunday. 

What answer make you? 

Edith. I do not deny 

That I was present in your Steeple- 
house 

On the First Day ; but I made no dis- 
turbance. 
Endicott. Why came you there ? 
Edith. Because the Lord com- 
manded. 

His word was in my heart, a burning 
fire 

Shut up within me and consuming 
me. 

And I was very weary with forbearing ; 

I could not stay. 
Endicott. 'T was not the Lord that 
sent you ; 

As an incarnate devil did you come ! 
Edith. On the First Day, when, 
seated in my chamber, 

I heard the bells toll, calling you to- 
gether. 

The sound struck at my life, as once at 
his, 

The holy man, our Founder, when he 
heard 

The far-off bells toll in the Vale of 
Beavor. 

It sounded like a market bell to call 

The folk together, that the Priest 
might set 

His wares to sale. And the Lord said 
within me, 

" Thou must go cry aloud against that 
Idol, 

And all the worshippers thereof" I 
went 

Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and I 
stood 

And listened at the threshold; and I 
heard 

The praying and the singing and the 
preaching. 

Which were but outward forms, and 
without power. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



153 



Then rose a cry within me, and my 

heart 
Was filled with admonitions and re- 
proofs. 
Remembering how the Prophets and 

Apostles 
Denounced the covetous hirelings and 

diviners, 
I entered in, and spake the words the 

Lord 
Commanded me to speak. I could no 
less. 
Endicott. Are you a Prophetess ? 
Edith. Is it not written, 

" Upon my handmaidens will I pour 

out 
My spirit, and they shall prophesy"? 

Endicott. Enough ; 

For out of your own mouth are you 

condemned ! 
Need we hear furthur? 

The Judges. We are satisfied. 

Endicott. It is sufficient. Edith 
Christison, 
The sentence of the Court is, that you 

be 
Scourged in three towns, with forty 

stripes save one. 
Then banished upon pain of death ! 

Edith. Your sentence 

Is truly no more terrible to me 
Than had you blown a feather into the 

air, 
And, as it fell upon me, you had said, 
" Take heed it hurt thee not ! " God's 
will be done ! 
Wenlock Christison {unseen in the 
crowd). Woe to the city of 
blood ! The stone shall cry 
Out of the wall : the beam from out 

the timber 
Shall answer it ! Woe unto him that 

buildeth 
A town with blood, and stablisheth a 

city 
By his iniquity ! 

Endicott' Who is it makes 

Such outcry here ? 

Christison {comiitg forward). I, 

Wenlock Christison I 
Endicott. Banished on pain of 

death, why come you here ? 
Christison. I come to warn you that 
you shed no more 



The blood of innocent men ! It cries 

aloud 
For vengeance to the Lord ! 

Endicott. Your life is forfeit 

Unto the law ; and you shall surely die, 
And shall not live. 

Christison. Like unto Eleazer, 

Maintaining the excellence of ancient 

years 
And the honor of his gray head, I 

stand before you ; 
Like him disdaining all hypocrisy, 
Lest, through desire to live a' little 

longer, 
I get a stain to my old age and name ! 
Endicott. Being in banishment, on 

pain of death, 
You come now in among us in rebel- 
lion. 
Christison. I come not in among 

you in rebellion, 
But in obedience to the Lord of 

Heaven. 
Not in contempt to any Magistrate, 
But only in the love I bear your souls. 
As ye shall know hereafter, when all 

men 
Give an account of deeds done in the 

body ! 
God's righteous judgments ye cannot 

escape. 
One of the Judges. Those who have 

gone before you said the same, 
And yet no judgment of the Lord hath 

fallen 
Upon us. 

Christison. He but waiteth till the 

measure 
Of your iniquities shall be filled up. 
And ye have run your race. Then 

will his wrath 
Descend upon you to the uttermost ! 
For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, it 

hangs 
Over thy head already. It shall come 
Suddenly, as a thief doth in the night. 
And in the hour when least thou think- 

est of it ! 
Endicott. We have a law, and by 

that law you die. 
Christison. I, a free man of England 

and freeborn. 
Appeal unto the laws of mine own na 

tion ! 



■54 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Endicott. There 's no appeal to 

England from this Court ! 
What ! do you think our statutes are 

but paper ? 
Are but dead leaves that rustle in the 

wind ? 
Or litter to be trampled underfoot ? 
What say ye, Judges of the Court, — 

what say ye ? 
Shall this man suffer death ? Speak 

your opinions. 
One of the Judges. I am a mortal 

man, and die I must, 
And that erelong; and I must then 

appear 
Before the awful judgment-seat of 

Christ, 
To give account of deeds done in the 

body. 
My greatest glory on that day will be, 
That I have given my vote against this 

man. 
Christison. If, Thomas Danforth, 

thou hast nothing more 
To glory in upon that dreadful day 
Than blood of innocent people, then 

thy glory 
Will be turned into shame ! The 

Lord hath said it 1 
Ajiother Judge. I cannot give con- 
sent, while other men 
Who have been banished upon pain of 

death 
Are now in their own houses here 

among us. 
Endicott. Ye that will not consent, 

make record of it. 
I thank my God that I am not afraid 
To give my judgment. Wenlock 

Christison, 
You must be taken back from hence to 

prison, 
Thence to the place of public execution, 
There to be hanged till you be dead — 

dead — dead ! 
Christison. If ye have power to take 

my life from me, — 
Which I do question, — God hath 

power to raise 
The principle of life in other men. 
And send them here among you. There 

shall be 
No peace unto the wicked, saith my 

God. 



Listen, ye Magistrates, for the Lord 
hath said it ! 

The day ye put his servitors to death. 

That day the Day of your own Visita- 
tion, 

The Day of Wrath, shall pass above 
your heads, 

And ye shall be accursed forevermore ! 

{To Edith, embracing her.) 

Cheer up, dear heart ! they have not 
power to harm us. 

{Exeunt Christison and Edith 
guarded. T/te scene closes.) 

Scene II. —^ Street. Enter Jouii 
Endicott and Ups.all. 

John Endicott. Scourged in three 

towns ! and yet the busy people 
Go up and down the streets on their 

affairs 
Of business or of pleasure, as if nothing 
Had happened to disturb them or their 

thoughts ! 
When bloody tragedies like this are 

acted 
The pulses of a nation should stand 

still ; 
The town should be in mourning, and 

the people 
Speak only in low whispers to each 

other. 
Upsall. I know this people ; and 

that underneath 
A cold outside there burns a secret fire 
That will find vent, and will not be put 

out, 
Till every remnant of these barbarous 

laws 
Shall be to ashes burned, and blown 

away. 
John Endicott. Scourged in three 

towns I It is incredible 
Such things can be ! I feel the blood 

within me 
Fast mounting in rebellion, since in vain 
Have I implored compassion of my fa- 
ther ! 
Upsall. You know your father only 

as a father ; 
I know him better as a Magistrate. 
He is a man both loving and severe ; 
A tender heart ; a will inflexible. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



^55 



None ever loved him more than I have 

loved him. 
He is an upright man and a just man 
In all things save the treatment of the 

Quakers. 
Joh7t Endicott. Yet I have found 

him cruel and unjust 
Even as a father. He has driven me 

forth 
Into the street ; has shut his door upon 

me, 
With words of bitterness. I am as 

homeless 
As these poor Quakers are. 

Upsall. Then come with me. 

You shall be welcome for your father's 

sake, 
And the old friendship that has been 

between us. 
He will relent erelong. A father's anger 
Is like a sword without a handle, 

piercing 
Both ways alike, and wounding him 

that wields it _ _ 
No less than him that it is pointed at. 
\_Exeu7it. 

Scene III. — The prison. Night. 
Edith reading the Bible by a lamp. 
Edith. " Blessed are ye when men 
shall persecute you, 

And shall revile you, and shall say 
against you 

All manner of evil falsely for my sake ! 

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great 

Is your reward in heaven. For so the 
prophets, 

Which were before you, have been per- 
secuted." 
{Enter }o\u^ Endicott.) 

John Ejidicott. Edith ! 

Edith Who is it speaketh? 

yohn Endicott. Saul of Tarsus : 

As thou didst call me once. 

Edith {coining forward). Yea, I 
remember. 
Thou art the Governor's son. 

John Endicott. I am ashamed 

Thou shouldst remember me. 

Edith. Why comest thou 

Into this dark guest-chamber in the 

night ? 
What seekest thou ? 



John Endicott. Forgiveness ! 

Edith. I forgive 

All who have injured me. What hast 

thou done ? 

John Endicott. I have betrayed 

thee, thinking that in this 

I did God service Now, in deep 

contrition, 
I come to rescue thee. 

Edith. From what ? 

John Endicott. From prison. 

Edith. I am safe here within these 

gloomy walls. 
John Endicott. From scourging in 

the streets, and in three towns ! 
Edith. Remembering who was 
scourged for me, I shrink not 
Nor shudder at the forty stripes save 
one. 
John Endicott. Perhaps from death 

itself! 
Edith. I fear not death, 

Knowing who died for me. 
John Endicott {aside). Sure some 
divine 
Ambassador is speaking through those 

lips 
And looking through those eyes ! I can- 
not answer ! 
Edith. If all these prison doors 
stood opened wide 
I would not cross the threshold, — not 

one step. 
There are invisible bars I cannot break; 
There are invisible doors that shut me 

in, 
And keep me ever steadfast to my pur- 
pose. 
Johji Endicott. Thou hast the pa- 
tience and the faith of Saints ! 
Edith. Thy Priest hath been with 
me this day to save me. 
Not only from the death that comes to 

all. 
But from the second death ! 

John Ejidicott. The Pharisee ! 

My heart revolts against him and his 

creed ! 
Alas ! the coat that was without a 

seam 
Is rent asunder by contending sects ; 
Each bears away a portion of the gar- 
ment. 
Blindly believing that he has the whole 1 



i=i6 



THE NEIV-EXGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Edith. When Death, the Healer, 

shall have touched our eyes 
With moist clay of the grave, then shall 

we see 
The truth as we have never yet beheld it. 
But he that overcometh shall not be 
Hurt of the second death. Has he 

forgotten 
The many mansions in our Father's 

house? 
Johti E>idicott. There is no pity in 

his iron heart ! 
The hands that now bear stamped upon 

their palms 
The burning sign of Heresy, hereafter 
Shall be uplifted against such accusers, 
And then the imprinted letter and its 

meaning 
Will not be Heresy, but Holiness ! 
E.iith Remember, thou conderanest 

thine own father I 
John Efidicott. I have no father ! 

He has cast me off. 
I am as homeless as the wind that 

moans 
And wanders through the streets. O, 

come with me I 
Do not delay. Thy God shall be my 

God, 
And where thou goest I will go. 

Edith. I cannot. 

Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal it ; 
From the first moment I beheld thy face 
I felt a tenderness in my soul towards 

thee. 
My mind has since been inward to the 

Lord, 
Waiting his word. It has not yet been 

spoken. 
John Endicott. I cannot wait. Trust 

me. O, come with me ! 
Edith. In the next room, my father, 

an old man, 
Sitteth imprisoned and condemned to 

death, 
Willing to prove his faith by martyrdom ; 
And thinkest thou his daughter would 

do less? 
Johtt Endicott. O, life is sweet, and 

death is terrible ! 
Edith. I have too long walked hand 

in hand with death 
To shudder at that pale familiar face. 
But leave mc now. I w ish to be alone. 



John Endicott. Not yet. O, let me 

stay. 
Edith. Urge me no more. 

jfohn Endicott. Alas I good night. 

I will not say good by ! 
Edith. Put this temptation under- 
neath thy feet. 
To him that overcometh shall be given 
The white stone with the new name 

written on it. 
That no man knows save him that doth 

receive it. 
And I will give thee a new name, and 

call thee 
Paul of Damascusandnot Saulof Tarsus. 

{Exit Endicott. Edith sits down 
agaiji to read tJie Bible.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — King Street, in front oj 
the to^M7i-ho7ise. Kempthorn /« tJie 
pillory. Merry, and a crowd of 
lookers-on. 

Ketnpthorn {sings). 

The world is full of care. 

Much like unto a bubble ; 
Woman and care, and care and women, 

And women and care and trouble. 

Good Master Merry, may I say con- 
found ? 
Merry. Ay, that you may. 
Kempthorn. Well, then, with your 
I permission. 

Confound the Pillory ! 

Merry. That 's the very thing 

The joiner said who made the Shrews- 
burs- stocks. 
He said, Confound the stocks, because 

they put him 
Into his own. He was the first man m 
them. 
Kempthorn. For swearing, was it? 
Merry. No, it was for charging; 

He charged the town too much ; and so 

the town, 
To make things square, set him in his 

own stocks, 
And fined him five pound sterling, — 

just enough 
To settle his own bill. 

KemptJiorn. And served him nght ; 
But, Master Merr>', is it not eight bells? 
I Merry. Not quite. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



157 



Kempthorn. For, do you see ? I 'm 

getting tired 
Of being perched aloft here in this cro' 

nest 
Like the first mate of a whaler, or a 

Middy 
Mast-headed, looking out for land ! 

Sail ho ! 1 

Here comes a heavy-laden merchantman i 
With the lee clews eased off, and run- 1 

ning free } 

Before the wind. A solid man of Boston. 
A comfortable man, wdth dividends, 
And the first salmon, and the first green 

peas. 
(^ gentlevian passes.) 

He does not even turn his head to look. 

He 's gone without a word. Here comes 
another, 

A different kind of craft on a taut bow- 
line, — 

Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, 

A pious and a ponderous citizen. 

Looking as rubicund and round and 
splendid 

As the great bottle in his own shop 
window ! 
(Deacon Firmin passes.) 

And here 's my host of the Three Mari- 
ners, 

My creditor and trusty tavemer. 

My corporal in the Great Artillery ! 

He 's not a man to pass me without 
speaking. 
(Cole looks away and passes.) 

Don't yaw so ; keep your luff, old hypo- 
crite ! 

Respectable, ah yes, respectable. 

You, with your seat in the new Meet- 
ing-house, 

Your cow-right on the Common ! But 
who 's this ? 

I did not know the Mary Ann was in I 

And yet this is my old friend, Captain 
Goldsmith, 

As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. 

Why, Ralph, my boy ' 

{Enter Ralph Goldsmith.) 
Goldsjnitk. Why, Simon, is it you ? 

Set in the bilboes? 

Kempthorn. Chock-a-block, you see, 

And without chafing-gear. | 



Goldsmith. And what 's it for ? 

K empthorn. Ask that starbowline 
wiih the boat-hook there, 
That handsome man. 

Merry {bowing). For swearing. 
Kempthorn. In this town 

They put sea-captains in the stocks for 

swearing. 
And Quakers tor not swearing. So look 
out. 
Goldsmith I pray you set him free ; 
he meant no harm ; 
'T is an old habit he picked up afloat. 
Merry. W^ell, as your time is out, you 
may come down. 
The law allows you now to go at large 
Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the 
Common. 
KetJipthorn. Now, hearties, bear a 
hand ! Let go and haul. 

( K EM PTHORN is set free, a^id comes for- 
ward, shaking Goldsmith's hand.) 

Kevipthorn. Give me your hand, 
Ralph. Ah, how good it feels ! 
The hand of an old friend. 

Goldsmith. God bless you, Simon ! 
Kempthorn- Now let us make a 
straight wake for the tavern 
Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole 

commander ; 
Where we can take our ease, and see 

the shipping. 
And talk about old times. 

Goldsmith. First I must pay 

My duty to the Governor, and take 

him 
His letters and despatches. Come 
with me. 
Kempthorn. I 'd rather not. I saw 

him yesterday. 
Goldsmith. Then wait for me at the 

Three Nuns and Comb. 
Kempthorn. I thank you. That 's 
too near to the town pump. 
I will go with you to the Governor's, 
And wait outside there, sailing off and 

on ; 
If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal. 
Merry Shall I go with you and 

point out the way ? 
Goldsmith. O no, I thank you. I 
am not a stranger 
Here in your crooked little town. 



158 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Merry. How now, sir ? 

Do you abuse our town ? {Exit. 

Goldsmith. O, no offence. 

Kevipthorn. Ralph, I am under 

bonds for a hundred pound. 
Goldsmith. Hard lines. What for? 
Kempthorn. To take some Quakers 
back 
I brought here from Barbadoes in the 

Swallow. 
And how to do it I don't clearly see, 
For one of them is banished, and 

another 
Is sentenced to be hanged 1 What 
shall I do ? 
Goldsmith. Just slip your hawser on 
some cloudy night ; 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, 
Simon ! \_Exeu7it. 



Scene II. — Street ijt front of the 
prison. In the background a gate- 
way and several flights of steps 
leading up terraces to the Gover- 
nor's house. A pump on one side 
of the street. John Endicott, 
Merry, Upsall, and others. A 
druvi beats. 

John Endicott. O shame, shame, 

shame ! 
Merry. Yes, it would be a shame 
But for the damnable sin of Heresy ! 
JohnEjidicott. A woman scourged 

and dragged about our streets ! 
Merry. Well, Roxbury and Dor- 
chester must take 
Their share of shame. She will be 

whipped in each ! 
Three towns, and Forty Stripes save 

one ; that makes 
Thirteen in each. 

John Endicott. And are we Jews or 
Christians ? 
See where she comes, amid a gaping 

crowd ! 
And she a child. O, pitiful ! pitiful ! 
There 's blood upon her clothes, her 
hands, her feet ! 

[Enter Marshal and a drummer^ 
Edith, stripped to the ivaisf, fol- 
lo~ved by the hangman ivith a 
scourge, and a noisy croivd. 



Edith. Here let me rest one mo- 
ment. 1 am tired. 
Will some one give me water? 
Merry. At his peril. 

Upsall. Alas ! that I should live to 

see this day I 
A JVojjian. Did I forsake my father 
and my mother 
And come here to New England to see 
this ? 
Edith. I am athirst. Will no one 

give me water ? 
yohn Endicott {^nakijig his way 
through the crowd luith water). 
In the Lord's name ! 
Edith {drinki?ig). In his name I re- 
ceive it ! 
Sweet as the water of Samaria's well 
This water tastes. I thank thee. Is it 

thou ? 
I was afraid thou hadst deserted me. 
John Endicott. Never will I desert 
thee, nor deny thee. 
Be comforted. 

Merry O Master Endicott, 

Be careful what you say. 
John Endicott. Peace, idle bab- 
bler ! 
Merry. You'll rue these words ! 
John Ejtdicott. Art thou not better 

now ? 
Edith. They've struck me as with 

roses. 
John Endicott. Ah, these wounds ! 
These bloody garments ! 

Edith. It is granted me 

To seal my testimony with my blood. 
John Endicott. O blood-red seal of 
man's vindictive wrath I 

roses of the garden of the Lord ! 
I, of the household of Iscariot, 

1 have betrayed in thee my Lord and 

Master ! 

(Wexlock Christisox appears abovcy 
at the window of the prison, stretch- 
ifig otit his hands through the bars.) 

Christison. Be of good courage, O 
my child ! my child ! 

Blessed art thou when men shall perse- 
cute thee ! 

Fear not their faces, saith the Lord, fear 
not, 

For I am with thee to deliver thee. 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



159 



A Citizen. Who is it crying from the 

prison yonder ? 
Merry. It is old Wenlock Christison. 
Chrisiison. Remember 

Him who was scourged, and mocked, 

and crucified ! 
I see his messengers attending thee. 
Be steadfast, O, be steadfast to the 
end ! 
Edith {with exnltaiion). I cannot 
reach thee wiih these arms, O 
father ! 
But closely in my soul do I embrace 

thee 
And hold thee. In thy dungeon and 

thy death 
I will be with thee, and will comfort 
thee ! 
Marshal. Come, put an end to this. 
Let the drum beat. 

{The dnim beats. Exeicnt all but 
John Endicott, Upsall, and 
Merry.) 

Christiso7i. Dear child, farewell ! 
Never shall I behold 

Thy face again with these bleared eyes 
of flesh; 

And never wast thou fairer, lovelier, 
dearer 

Than now, when scourged and bleed- 
ing, and insulted 

For the truth's sake. O pitiless, piti- 
less town ! 

The wrath of God hangs over thee ; 
and the day 

Is near at hand when thou shalt be 
abandoned 

To desolation and the breeding of net- 
tles. 

The bittern and the cormorant shall 
lodge 

Upon thine upper lintels, and their voice 

Sing in thy windows. Yea, thus saith 
the Lord ! 
Joh^i Endicott. Awake ! awake ! ye 
sleepers, ere too late, 

And wipe these bloody statutes from 
your books !• {Exit. 

Merry. Take heed ; the walls have 

ears ! 
Upsall. At last, the heart 

Of every honest man must sp^ak or 
break ! 



{Enter Governor Endicott with 
his halberdie7-s .) 

Endicott. What is this stir and tu- 
mult in the street? 
Merry. Worshipful sir, the whipping 
of a girl, 
And her old father howling from the 
prison. 
Endicott {to his halberdiers). Go on. 
Christison. Antiochus ! Antiochus ! 
O thou that slayest the Maccabees ! 

The Lord 
Shall smite thee with incurable dis- 
ease. 
And no man shall endure to carry 
thee ! 
Merry. Peace, old blasphemer ! 
Christison. I both feel and see 

The presence and the waft of death go 

forth 
Against thee, and already thou dost 

look 
Like one that 's dead ! 
Merry {pointing). And there is 
your own son, 
Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition. 
Etidicott. Arrest him. Do not spare 

him. 
Merry {aside). His own child ! 

There is some special providence takes 

care 
That none shall be too happy in this 

world ! 
His own first-born ! 
Endicott. O Absalom, my son ! 

{Exennt ; the Governor, %uith his 
halberdiers, ascendi^ig the steps of 
his house.) 

Scene III. — The Governor' s private 
roofn. Papers npon the table- 
Endicott and Bellingham. 

Endicott. There is a ship from Eng- 
land has come in, 

Bringing despatches and much news 
from home. 

His Majesty was at the Abbey crowned ; 

And when the coronation was com- 
plete 

There passed a mighty tempest o'er the 
city. 

Portentous with great thunderings and 
lightnings. 



26o 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Bellingham. After his father's, if I 

well remember, 
There was an earthquake, that fore- 
boded evil. 
Endicott. Ten of the Regicides have 

been put to death ! 
The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and 

Bradshaw 
Have been dragged from their graves, 

and publicly 
Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn. 
Bellifigham. Horrible ! 

Endicott. Thus the old tyranny re- 
vives again ! 
Its arm is long enough to reach us here, 
As you will see. For, more insulting 

still 
Than flaunting in our faces dead men's 

shrouds, 
Here is the King's Mandamus, taking 

from us. 
From this day forth, all power to pun- 
ish Quakers. 
Bellingham. That takes from us all 

power ; we are but puppets, 
And can no longer execute our laws. 
Endicott. His Majesty begins with 

pleasant words, 
*' Trusty and well-beloved, we greet 

you well " ; 
Then with a ruthless hand he strips 

from me 
All that which makes me what I am ; 

as if 
From some old general in the field, 

grown gray 
In service, scarred with many wounds, 
Just at the hour of victory, he should 

strip 
His badge of office and his well-gained 

honors. 
And thrust him back into the ranks 

again. 

{Opens the Mandamus., and hands it to 
Bellingham ; and. while he is read- 
ing, Endicott lualks jip and doivn 
tJie roofn.) 

Here read it for yourself; you see his 

words 
Are pleasant words — considerate — 

not reproachful — 
Nothins: could be more gentle — or : 

more roval ; I 



But then the meaning underneath the 
words, 

Mark that. He says all people known 
as Quakers 

Among us, now condemned to suffer 
death 

Or any corporal punishment whatever. 

Who are imprisoned, or may be ob- 
noxious 

To the like condemnation, shall be sent 

Forthwith to England, to be dealt with 
there 

In such wise as shall be agreeable 

Unto the English law and their de- 
merits. 

Is it not so ? 

Bellingham {rcturnitig tJie paper). 

Ay, so the paper says. 
Etidicott. It means we shall no 
longer rule the Province ; 

It means farewell to law and liberty, 

Authority, respect for Magistrates, 

The peace and welfare of the Common- 
wealth. 

If all the knaves upon this continent 

Can make appeal to England, and so 
thwart 

The ends of truth and justice by delay, 

Our power is gone forever. We are 
nothing 

But ciphers, valueless save when we 
follow 

Some unit ; and our unit is the King ! 

'T is he that gives us value. 

Bellingham. I confess 

Such seems to be the meaning of this 
paper. 

But being the King's Mandamus, 
signed and sealed. 

We must obey, or vve are in rebellion. 
Endicott. I tell you, Richard Belling- 
ham, — I tell you, 

That this is the beginning of a struggle 

Of which no mortal can foresee the end. 

I shall not live to fight the battle for 
you, 

I am a man disgraced in every way : 

This order takes from me my self- 
respect 

And the respect of others. 'T is my 
doom. 

Yes, my death-warrant, but must be 
obeyed I 

Take it, and see that it is executed 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



i6i 



So far as this, that all be set at large ; 
But see that none of them be sent to 

England 
To bear false witness, and to spread 

reports 
That might be prejudicial to ourselves. 
\^Exit Bellingham. 

There 's a dull pain keeps knocking at 

my heart, 
Dolefully saying, " Set thy house in 

order, 
For thou shalt surely die, andshalt not 

live ! " 
For me the shadow on the dial-plate 
Goeth not back, but on into the dark ! 

{Exit. 

Scene IV. — The street. A crowd., \ 
reading a placard on the door of 
the Meeting -house. Nicholas Up- 
SALL among them. Enter John 
Norton. 

Norton. What is this gathering here ? 

Upsall. One William Brand, 

An old man like ourselves, and weak in 

body, 
Has been so cruelly tortured in his 

prison, 
The people are excited, and they 

threaten 
To tear the prison down. 

Norton. What has been done ? 

Upsall. He has been put in irons, 
with his neck 
And heels tied close together, and so 

left^ 
From five in the morning until nine at 
night. 
Norton- What more was done ? 
Upsall. He has been kept five davs 
In prison without food, and cruelly 

beaten, 
So that his limbs were cold, his senses 
stopped, 
Norton. What more? _ 
Upsall. And is this not enough ? 

Norton- Now hear me. 

This William Brand of yours has tried 

to beat 
Onr Gospel Ordinances black and blue ; 
And, if he has been beaten in like 
manner, 

II 



It is but justice, and I will appear 

In his behalf that did so. I suppose 

That he refused to w ork. 

Upsall. He was too weak. 

How could an old man work, when he 
was starving ? 
Norton. And what is this placard? 
Upsall. The Magistrates, 

To appease the people and prevent a 
tumult, 

Have put up these placards throughout 
the town. 

Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt 
with 

Impartially ar.d sternly by the Court. 
Norton {tearing down the placard). 
Dowai with this weak and cow- 
ardly concession, 

This flag of truce with Satan and with 
Sin ! 

I fling it in his face ! I trample it 

Under my feet ! It is his cunning 
craft. 

The masterpiece of his diplomacy, 

To cry and plead for boundless tolera- 
tion. 

But toleration is the first-born child 

Of all abominations and deceits. 

There is no room in Christ's trium- 
phant army 

For tolerationists. And if an Angel 

Preach any other gospel unto you 

Than that ye have received, God's 
malediction 

Descend upon him ! Let him be ac- 
cursed ! {Exit. 
Upsall. Now, go thy ways, John 
Norton ! go thy ways, 

Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call 
thee ! 

But even now there cometh out of 
England, 

Like an o'ertaking and accusing con- 
science. 

An outraged man, to call thee to ac- 
count 

For the unrighteous murder of his son 1 

{Exit. 

Scene V. — The Wilderness- Entef 
Edith. 

Edith. How beautiful are these 
autumnal woods ! 



l62 



THE XEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



The wilderness doth blossom like the 

rose, 
And change into a garden of the Lord ! 
How silent everywhere ! Alone and 

lost 
Here in the forest, there comes over rpe 
An inward awfulness. I recall the 

words 
Of the Apostle Paul : " In joumeyings 

often. 
Often in perils in the wilderness. 
In weariness, in painflilness, in wa*ch- 

ings. 
In hunger and thirst, in cold and 

nakedness " ; 
And I forget my weariness and pain. 
My watchings, and my hunger and my 

thirst. 
The Lord hath said that he will seek 

his flock 
In cloudy and dark days, and they sb-^11 

dwell 
Securely in the wilderness, and sleep 
Safe in the woods ! Whichever way I 

turn, 
I come back with my face towards the 

town. 
Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. 

cruel town ! I know what waits me 

there, 
And yet I must go back ; forever louder 

1 hear the inward calling of the Spirit, 
And must obey the voice. O woods, 

that wear 

Your golden crown of martyrdom, 
blood-stained, 

From you I learn a lesson of submis- 
sion. 

And am obedient even unto death, 

If God so wills it. [Exit. 

John Efidicott {within). Edith ! 
Edith ! Edith ! 

{He enters.) 

It is in vain ! I call, she answers not ! 
I follow, but I find no trace of her ! 
Blood ! blood ! The leaves above me 

and around me 
Are red with blood ! The pathways tf 

the forest. 
The clouds that canopy the setting sun. 
And even the little river in the meadows. 
Are stained with it ! Where'er 1 look, 

I see it I 



Away, thou horrible vision ! Leave me ! 

leave me ! 
Alas ! yon winding stream, that gropes 

its way 
Through mist and shadow, doubling oh 

itself, 
At length will find, by the unerring law 
Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of 

man, 
Groping through mist and shadow, and 

recoiling 
Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious 

ways 
Subject to law? and when thou seem- 

est to wander 
The farthest from thy goal, art thou 

still drawing 
Nearer and nearer to it, till at length 
Thou findest, like the river, what thou 

seekest ? [Exit. 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — Daybreak. Street infroTii 
of Upi.\LL's ho7ise. A light in tfic 
window. Enter John Endicott. 

John Endicott. O silent, sombre, 
and deserted streets, 
To me ye 're peopled with a sad pro- 
cession, 
And echo only to the voice of sor- 
row ! 
O houses full of peaceful-^.ess and sleep. 
Far better were it t-^ awake no more 
Tlian wake to look upon such scenes 

again ! 
There is a light in Master Upsall's win- 
dow. 
The good man is already risen, for 

sleep 
Deserts the couches of the old. 

{Knocks at Upsall's door.) 
Upsall {at the windo^v). Who 's 

there ? 
John Endicott. Am I so changed 

you do not know my voice ? 
Upsall. I know you. Have you 
heard what things have happened ? 
John Endicott. I have heard noth- 
ing. 
Upsall. Stay ; I will come down 

Johfi Endicott. I am afraid some 
dreadful news awaits me 1 



JOHN ENDICOTT, 



163 



I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient 
To know the worst. O, I am very weary 
With waiting and with watching and 



pursumg 



{Enter Upsall.) 

U^sall. Thank God, you have come 

back ! I 've much to tell ycu. 
Where have you been? 

John Endicott. You know that 

I was seized, 
Fined, and released again. You kiiow 

that Edith, 
After her scourging in three towns, was 

banished 
Into the wilderness, into the land 
That is not sown ; and there I followed 

her, 
But found her not. Where is she ? 
UpsalL She is here. 

Joh7t Endicott. O, do not speak that 

word, for it means death ! 
Upsall. No, it means life. She 

sleeps in yonder chamber. 
Listen to me. When news of Leddra's 

death 
Reached England, Edward Burroughs, 

having boldly 
Got access to the presence of the King, 
Told him there was a vein of innocent 

blood 
Opened in his dominions here, which 

threatened 
To overrun them all. The King replied, 
" But I will stop that vein !" and he 

forthwith 
Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, 
That they proceed no further in this 

business. 
So all are pardoned, and all set at large. 
John Endicott. Thank God ! This 

is a victory for truth ! 
Our thoughts are free. They cannot 

be shut up 
In prison walls, nor put to death on 

scaffolds ! 
Upsall. Come in ; the morning air 

blows sharp and cold 
Through the damp streets. 

John Endicott. It is the dawn of day 
That chases the old darkness from our 

sky, 
And fills the land with liberty and light 
\_Exeunt. 



Scene II. — The parlor of the Three 
Mariners. Enter Kempthorn. 

Kempthorn. A dull life this, — a dull 

life anyway ! 
Ready for sea ; the cargo all aboard, 
Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind 

blowing 
From nor'-nor'-west ; and I, an idle 

lubber. 
Laid neck and heels by that confounded 

bond ! 
I said to Ralph, says I, " What 's to be 

done?" 
Says he : "Just slip your hawser in the 

night ; 
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, 

Simon." 
But that won't do ; because, you see, 

the owners 
Somehow or other are mixed up with it. 
Here are King Charles's Twelve Good 

Rules, that Cole 
Thinks as important as the Rule of 

Three. {Reads.) 
" Make no comparisons; make no long 

meals." 
Those are good rules and golden for a 

landlord 
To hang in his best parlor, framed and 

glazp.d ! 
"Maintain no ill opinions; urge no 

healths." 
I drink the King's, whatever he may 

And, as to ill opinions, that depends. 

Now of Ralph Goldsmith I 've a good 
opinion, 

And of the bilboes I 've an ill opinion ; 

And both of these opinions I '11 main- 
tain 

As long as there 's a shot left in the 
locker. 

{Enter Edward Butter with an ear- 
trumpet') 
Butter. Good morning. Captain 

Kempthorn. 
Ke^npthorn. Sir, to you. 

You 've the advantage of me. I don't 

know you. 
What may I call your name? 

Butter. That 's not your name ? 

Kempthorn. Yes, that 's my name. 
What 's yours ? 



164 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Butter. , My name is Butter. 

I am the treasurer of the Common- 
wealth. 
Ke^npthorn. Will you be seated ? 
Butter. What say ? Who 's con- 
ceited? 
Kentpthorn- Will you sit down ? 
Butter. O, thank you. 

Kempthorn. Spread yourself 

Upon this chair, sweet Butter. 
Bjitter {sitting down). A fine morn- 
ing. 
Kemptkorn. Nothing 's the matter 
with it that I know of 
I have seen better, and I have seen 

worse. 
The wind's nor'west. That's fair for 
them that sail. 
Biitti'r. You need not speak so loud ; 
I understand you. 
You sail to-day. 

Kemptkorn. No, I don't sail to-day. 
So, be it fair or foul, it matters not. 
Say, will you smoke ? There 's choice 
tobacco here. 
Butter. No, thank you. It 's against 

the law to smoke 
Kemptkorn. Then, will you drink ? 

There 's good ale at this inn. 
Butter. No, thank you. It's against 

the law to drink. 
Kempthorfi. Well, almost every- 
thing 's against the law 
In this good town. Give a wide berth 

to one thing, 
You 're sure to fetch up soon on some- 
thing else. 
Butter. And so you sail to-day for 
dear Old England. 
I am not one of those who think a sup 
Of this New England air is better worth 
Than a whole draught of our Old Eng- 
land's ale. 
Kempthorn. Nor I. Give me the 
ale and keep the air. 
But, as I said, I do not sail to-day. 
Btitter. Ah yes ; you sail to-day. 
Kempthorn. I 'm under bonds 

To take some Quakers back to the 

Barbadoes ; 
And one of them is banished, and an- 
other 
Is sentenced to be hanged. 
Butter. No, all are pardoned, 



All are set free, by order of the Court ; 
But some of them would fain return to 

England. 
You must not take them. Upon that 

condition 
Your bond is cancelled. 

Kempthorn. Ah, the wind 

has shifted ! 
I pray you, do you speak officially ? 
Butter. I always speak officially. 

To prove it. 
Here is the bond. 

{Rising, and giving a paper.) 

Kempthorn. And here 's my hand 
upon it. 
And, look you, when I say I '11 do a 

thing 
The thing is done. Am I now free to go? 
Butter. What say ? 
Kempthorn. I say, confound 

the tedious man 
With his strange speaking-trumpet ! 
Can I go ? 
Butter. You 're free to go, by order 
of the Court. 
Your servant, sir. {Exit. 

Kempthorn {shoutijig from the win- 
dow). Swallow, ahoy ! Hallo ! 
I fever a man was happy to leave Boston, 
That man is Simon Kempthorn of the 
Swallow ! 

{Re-enter Butter.) 

Butter. Pray, did you call ? 
Kempthorn. Call? Yes, I hailed 

the Swallow. 
Butter. That 's not my name. My 

name is Edward Butter. 
You need not speak so loud. 

Kempthorn {shaking hajids). Good 

by ! Good by ! 
Butter. Your servant, sir. 
Kempthorn. And yours 

a thousand times ! [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Governor Endicott's 
private room. A n open zuindow. 
Endicott seated in an arm-chair. 
Bellingh.\m standing near. 

Endicott. O lost, O loved ! wilt thou 
return no more ? 
O loved and lost, and loved the mor*} 
when lost ! 



JOHN ENDICOTT. 



i6= 



How many men are dragged Into their 

graves 
By their rebellious children ! I now 

feel 
The agony of a father's breaking heart 
In David's cry, *' O Absalom, my son ! " 
Bellinghani. Can you not turn your 

thoughts a little while 
To public matters ? There are papers 

here 
That need attention. 

Endicott. Trouble me no more ! 

My business now is with another world. 
Ah, Richard Bellingham ! I greatly 

fear 
That in my righteous zeal I have been 

led 
To doing many things which, left un- 
done. 
My mind would now be easier. Did I 

dream it. 
Or has some person told me, that John 

Norton 
Is dead? 
BeUingham. You have not dreamed 

it. He is dead. 
And gone to his reward. It was no 

dream. 
Endicott. Then it was very sudden ; 

for I saw him 
Standing where you now stand not long 

ago. 
Bellinghavi. By his own fireside, in 

the afternoon, 
A faintness and a giddiness came o'er 

him : 
And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he 

cried, 
*' The hand of God is on me ! " and fell 

dead. 
Endicott. And did not some one say, 

or have I dreamed it, 
That Humphrey Atherton is dead ? 

Belli7ighafn. Alas ! 

He too is gone, and by a death as sud- 
den. 
Returning home one evening, at the 

place 
Where usually the Quakers have been 

scourged, 
His horse took fright, and threw him to 

the ground, 
So that his brains were dashed about 

the street. 



Endicott. I am not superstitious, 
Bellingham, 
And yet I tremble lest it may have been 
A judgment on him. 

Belli7tgham. So the people think. 
They say his horse saw standing in the 

way 
The ghost of William Leddra, and was 

frightened. 
And furthermore, brave Richard Da- 
venport, 
The captain of the Castle, in the storm 
Has been struck dead by lightning. 

E^idicott. Speak no more. 

For as I listen to your voice it seems 
As if the Seven Thunders uttered their 

voices. 
And the dead bodies lay about the 

streets 
Of the disconsolate city ! Bellingham, 
I did not put those wretched men to 

death, 
I did but guard the passage with the 

sword 
Pointed towards them, and they rushed 

upon it ! 
Yet now I would that I had taken no 

part 
In all that bloody work. 

Bellingham. The guilt of it 

Be on their heads, not ours, 
Endicott. Are all set free ? 

Bellingham. All are at large. 
Endicott. And none have been sent 
back 
To England to malign us with the King ? 
Bellingham. The ship that brought 
them sails this very hour, 
But carries no one back. 

{A distant cannon.^ 

Endicott. What is that gun ? 

Bellingha^n. Her parting signal. 
Through the window there, 
Look, you can see her sails, above the 

roofs, 
Dropping IdcIow the Castle, outward 
bound, 
Endicott. O white, white, white ! 
Would that my soul had wings 
As spotless as those shining sails to fly 

with ! 
Now lay this cushion straight. I thank 
you. Hark ! 



i66 



THE XEW-ENGLAXD TRAGEDIES. 



I thought I heard the hall door open 

and shut I 
I thought I heard the footsteps of my 

boy ! 
BeUingha7?i. It was the wind. 

There 's no one in the passage. 
Endicott. O Absalom, my son ! I 

feel the world 
Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, 

sinking ! 
Death knocks 1 I go to meet him ! 

Welcome, Deatn i 

{Rises, a7id sinks back dead ; his head 
faUi?ig aside upon his shoulder ) 

Belli^igJuim. O ghastly sight 1 Like 
one who has been hanged ! 
Endicott ! Endicott ! He makes no 
answer ! 



{Raises Endicott's head.) 

He breathes no more I How bright 

this signet-ring 
Glitters upon his hand, where he has 

worn it 
Through such long years of trouble, as 

if Death 
Had given him this memento of af- 
fection, 
And whispered in his ear, "Remember 

me!" 
How placid and how quiet is his face. 
Now that the struggle and the strife are 

ended ! 
Only the acrid spirit of the times 
Corroded this true steel. O, rest in 

peace, 
Courageous heart I Forever rest in 

peace I 



II. 
GILES COREY 

OF THE 

SALEM FARMS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Giles Corey ....... Farmer. 

John Hathorne Magistrate. 

Cotton Mather Minister of the Gospel 

Jonathan Walcot a youth. 

Richard Gardner Sea-Captai7t. 

John Gloyd ....... Corey'' s hired man. 

Martha ..,.>. . . wife of Giles Corey- 
TiTUBA ... . an Indian womari. 

Mary Walcot ojie of the Afflicted' 

The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692. 



PROLOGUE. 



Delusions of the days that once have 
been, 

Witchcraft and wonders of the world 
unseen, 

Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts 

That crushed the weak and awed the 
stoutest hearts, — 

These are our theme to-night ; and 
vaguely here. 

Through the dim mists that crowd the 
atmosphere. 

We draw the outlines of weird figures 
cast 

In shadow on the background of the 
Past. 
Who would believe that in the quiet 
town 

Of Salem, and amid the woods that 
crown 

The neighboring hillsides, and the sun- 
ny farms 

That fold it safe in their paternal 
arms, — 

Who would believe that in those peace- 
ful streets. 

Where the great elms shut out the sum- 
mer heats. 

Where quiet reigns, and breathes 
through brain and breast 

The benediction of unbroken rest, — 

Who would believe such deeds could 
find a place 

As these whose tragic history we re- 
trace ? 
'T was but a village then : the good- 
man ploughed 

His ample acres under sun or cloud ; 

The goodwife at her doorstep sat and 
spun. 

And gossiped with her neighbors in the 
sun ; 

The only men of dignity and state 



Were then the Minister and the Magis- 
trate 
Who ruled their little realm with iron 

rod, 
Less in the love than in the fear of God ; 
And who believed devoutly in the 

Powers 
Of Darkness, working in this world of 

ours, 
In spells of Witchcraft, incantations 

dread. 
And shrouded apparitions of the dead. 
Upon this simple folk " with fire and 

flame," 
Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil 

came ; 
Scattering his firebrands and his poi- 
sonous darts, 
To set on fire of Hell all tongues and 

hearts ! 
And 't is no wonder; for, with all his 

host, 
There most 'he rages where he hateth 

most. 
And is most hated ; so on us he brings 
All these stupendous and portentous 

things ! " 
Something of this our scene to-night 

will show ; 
And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, 
Be not too swift in casting the first 

stone. 
Nor think New England bears the guilt 

alone. 
This sudden burst of wickedness and 

crime 
Was but the common madness of the 

time, 
When in all lands, that lie within the 

sound 
Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned 

or drowned. 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The woods near Salem 
Village. Enter Tituba, with a 
basket of herbs. 

Tituba. Here's monk's-hood, that 
breeds fever in the blood ; 

And deadly nightshade, that makes 
men see ghosts ; 

And henbane, that will shake them with 
convulsions ; 

And meadow-saffi-on and black helle- 
bore, 

That rack the nerves, and pufF the skin 
with dropsy ; 

And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye- 
bright. 

That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheu- 
matisms ; 

I know them, and the places where they 
hide 

In field and meadow ; and I know their 
secrets, 

And gather them because they give me 
power 

Over all men and women. Armed with 
these, 

I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, 

Am stronger than the captain with his 
sword, 

Am richer than the merchant with his 
money. 

Am wiser than the scholar with his 
books, 

Mightier than Ministers and Magis- 
trates, 

With all the fear and reverence that at- 
tend them ! 

For I can fill their bones with aches 
and pains, 



Can make them cough with asthma, 

shake with palsy. 
Can make their daughters see and talk 

with ghosts, 
Or fall into delirium and convulsions. 
I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand ; 
A touch from me, and they are weak 

with pain, 
A look from me, and they consume and 

die. 
The death of cattle and the blight of 

earn. 
The shipwreck, the tornado, and the 

fire, — 
These are my doings, and they know it 

not. 
Thus I work vengeance on mine ene- 
mies. 
Who, while they call me slave, are 

slaves to me ! 

{Exit Tituba. Enter Mather, boot- 
ed and spurred^ with a riding-'whip 
in his hand.) 

Mather. Methinks that I have come 
by paths unknown 
Into the land and atmosphere of Witch' 

es ; 
For, meditating as I journeyed on, 
Lo ! I have lost my way ! If I remem- 
ber 
Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned 
That tells the story of a man who, pray- 
ing 
For one that was possessed by Evil 

Spirits, 
Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face ; 
I, journeying to circumvent '.he Witches, 
Surely by Witches h? ve 'jeei7 led astray 
I am persuaded tWfie are (ew affairs 



'74 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



In which the Devil doth not interfere. 
We cannot undertake a journey even, 
But Satan will be there to meddle with it 
By hindering or by furthering. He 

hath led me 
Into this thicket, struck me in the face 
VVith branches of the trees, and so en- 
tangled 
The fetlocks of my horse with vines and 

brambles. 
That I must needs dismount, and 

search on foot 
For the lost pathway leading to the 
village. 

{Re-enter Tituba.) 

What shape is this? What monstrous 

apparition, 
Exceeding fierce, that none may pass 

that way ? 
Tell me, good woman, if you are a 
woman — 
Tituba. I am a woman, but I am not 
good. 
I am a Witch ! 
Mather. Then tell me, Witch 

and woman. 
For you must know the pathways 

through this wood, 
Where lieth Salem Village? 

Tituba. Reverend sir, 

The village is near by, I 'm going 

there 
With these few herbs. I '11 lead you. 
Follow me. 
Mather. First say, who are you? I 
am loath to follow 
A stranger in this wilderness, for fear 
Of being misled, and left in some morass. 
Who are you? 

Tituba. I am Tituba the Witch, 

Wife of John Indian. 

Mather. You are Tituba ? 

I know you then. You liave renounced 

the Devil, 
And have become a penitent confessor. 
The Lord be praised ! Go on, I '11 fol- 
low you. 
Wait only till I fetch my horse, that 

stands 
Tethered among the trees, not far from 
here. 
Tituba. Let me get up behind you, 
reverend sir. 



Mather. The Lord forbid ! Wliat 
would the people think. 
If they should see the Reverend Cotton 

Mather 
Ride into Salem with a Witch behind 

him? 
The Lord forbid ! 

Tittcba. I do not need a horse ; 

I can ride through the air upon a stick. 
Above the tree-tops and above the 

houses, 
And no one see me, no one overtake me ! 
{_Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A room az? Justice Ha- 
1 horne's. a clock in the cornier. 
Ejiter Hathorne and Mather. 
Hathorne. You are welcome, rever- 
end sir, thrice welcome here 
Beneath my humble roof 

Mather. I thank your Worship. 

Hathor7ie. Pray you be seated. You 
must be fatigued 
With your long ride through unfre- 
quented woods. 

{They sit dowji.) 
Mather. You know the purport of 
my visit here, — 
To be advised by you, and counsel with 

you. 
And with the Reverend Clergy of the 

village, 
Touching these witchcrafts that so 

much afflict you ; 
And see with mine own eyes the won- 
ders told 
Of spectres and the shadows of the 

dead, 
That come back from their graves to 
speak with men. 
Hathorne. Some men there are, I 
have known such, who think 
That the two worlds — the seen and the 

unseen, 
The world of matter and the world of 

spirit — 
Are like the hemispheres ui on our 

maps. 
And touch each other only at a point. 
But these two worlds are not divided 

thus. 
Save for the purposes of com mot/ 
speech. 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



175 



They form one globe, in which the 
parted seas 

All flow together and are intermingled, 

While the great continents remain dis- 
tinct. 
Mather. I doubt it not. The spirit- 
ual world 

Lies all about us, and its avenues 

Are open to the unseen feet of phan- 
toms 

That come and go, and we perceive 
them not 

Save by their influence, or when at times 

A most mysterious Providence permits 
them 

To manifest themselves to mortal eyes. 
Hathorne. You, who are always wel- 
come here among us. 

Are doubly welcome now. We need 
your wisdom. 

Your learning in these things, to be our 
guide. 

The Devil hath come dowTi in wrath 
upon us, 

And ravages the land with all his hosts. 
Mather. The Unclean Spirit said, 
" My name is Legion ! " 

Multitudes in the Yalley of Destruction ! 

But when our fervent, well-directed 
prayers. 

Which are the great artillery of Heaven, 

Are brought into the field, I see them 
scattered 

And driven like Autumn leaves before 
the wind. 
Hathorne. You, as a Minister of 
God, can meet them 

With spiritual weapons ; but, alas ! 

I, as a Magistrate, must combat them 

With weapons from the armory of the 
flesh. 
Mather. These wonders of the world 
invisible, — 

These spectral shapes that haunt our 
habitations, — 

The multiplied and manifold afflictions 

With which the aged and the dying 
saints 

Have their death prefaced and their age 
imbittered, — 

Are but prophetic trumpets that pro- 
claim 

The Second Coming of our Lord on 
earth. 



The evening wolves will be much more 

abroad. 
When we are near the evening of the 
world. 
Hathorne. When you shall see, as I 
have hourly seen, 
The sorceries and the witchcrafts that 

torment us. 
See children tortured by invisible spirits, 
And wasted and consumed by powers 

unseen. 
You will confess the half has not been 
told you. 
Mather. It must be so. The death- 
pangs of the Devil 
Will make him more a Devil than before. 
And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace w^ill be 

heated 
Seven times more hot before its putting 
out. 
Hathorne. Advise me, reverend sir. 
I look to you 
For counsel and for guidance in this 

matter. 
W^hat further shall we do ? 

Mather. Remember this, 

That as a sparrow falls not to the ground 
Without the will of God, so not a Devil 
Can come down from the air without 

his leave. 
We must inquire. 
Hathorne. Dear sir, we have in- 

quired ; 
Sifted the matter thoroughly througli 

and through. 
And then resifted it. 

Mather. If God permits 

These Evil Spirits from the unseen re- 
gions 
To visit us with surprising informations. 
We must inquire what cause there is for 

this. 
But not receive the testimony borne 
By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt 
In the accused. 

Hathorne. Upon such evidence 

We do not rest our case. The ways are 

many 
In which the guilty do betray them- 
selves. 
Mather. Be careful. Carry the knife 
wath such exactness. 
That on one side no innocent blood be 
shed 



176 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



By too excessive zeal, and, on the other, 
No shelter given to any workof darkness. 
Hathorne. Yox one, I do not fear ex- 
cess of zeal. 
What do we gain by parleying with the 

Devil? 
You reason, but you hesitate to act ! 
Ah, reverend sir ! believe me, in such 

cases 
The only safety is in acting promptly. 
'Tis not the part of wisdom to delay 
In things where not to do is still to do 
A deed more fatal than the deed we 

shrink from. 
You are a man of books and meditation, 
But I am one who acts. 

Mather. God give us wisdom 

In the directing of this thorny business, 
And guide us, lest New England should 

become 
Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor 
In the opinion of the world abroad ! 

{J^The clock strikes.) 
I never hear the striking of a clock 
Without a warning and an admonition 
That time is on the wing, and we must 

quicken 
Our tardy pace m journeying Heaven- 
ward, 
As Israel did in journeying Canaan- 
ward ! 

{They rise.) 

Hathorne. Then let us make all 
haste ; and I will show yon 
In what disguises and what fearfuUhipes 
The Unclean Spirits haunt this neigh- 
borhood. 
And you will pardon my excess of zeal. 
Mather. Ah, poor New England ! 
He who hurricanoed 
The house of Job is making now on thee 
One last assault, more deadly and more 

snarled 
With unintelligible circumstances 
Than any thou hast hitherto encoun- 
tered ! {^Exeunt. 

Scene III. — A room in Walcot's 
house. Mary Walcot seated i7i 
an arm-chair. Tituba ivith a 
fnirror. 
Mary. Tell me another story, Tituba. 

A drowsiness is stealing over me 



Which is not sleep ; for, though I close 

mine eyes, 
I am awake, and in another world. 
Dim faces of the dead and of the absent 
Come floating up before me, — floating, 

fading. 
And disappearing. 

Tittiha. Look into this glass. 

What see you ? 

Mary. Nothmg but a golden vapor. 
Yes, something more. An island, wiih 

the sea 
Breaking all round it, like a blooming 

hedge. 
What land is this? 

Tittiba. It is San Salvador, 

Where Tituba was born. What see 

you now ? 

Mary. A man all black and fierce. 

Tituba That is my father. 

He was an Obi man, and taught me 

magic. 
Taught me the use of herbs and images. 
What is he doing ? 

Mary. Holding in his hand 

A waxen figure. He is melting it 
Slowly before a fire. 

Titnba. And now what see you ? 

Mary. A woman lying on a bed of 
leaves, 
Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is 
dying ! 
Titziba. That is the way the Obi men 
destroy 
The people they dislike ! That is the 

way 
Some one is wasting and consuming you, 
Mary. You terrify me, Tituba ! O, 
save me 
From those who make me pine and 

waste awav ! 
Who are they? Tell me. 

'Tituba. That I do not know. 

But you will see them. They will come 
to you. 
Mary. No, do not let them come ! 
I cannot bear it ! 
I am too weak to bear it ! I am dying. 
{Falls into a trance.) 
Tituba. Hark \ there is some one 
coming ! 
{Enter Hathorne, Mather, and 
Walcot.) 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



177 



Walcot. There she lies, 

Wasted and worn by devilish incanta- 
tions !_ 
my poor sister ! 
Mather. Is she always thus ? 

Walcot. Nay, she is sometimes tor- 
tured by convulsions. 
Mather. Poor child ! How thin she 

is ! How wan and wasted ! 
Hathorne. Observe her. She is 

troubled in her sleep. 
Mather. Some fearful vision haunts 

her. 
Hathorne. You now see 

With your own eyes, and touch with 

your own hands, 
The mysteries of this Witchcraft. 

Mather. One would need 

The hands of Briareus and the eyes of 

Argus 
To see and toach them all. 

Hathorne. You now have entered 
The realm of ghosts and phantoms, — 

the vast realm 
Of the unknown and the invisible. 
Through whose wide-open gates there 

blows a wind 
From the dark valley of the shadow of 

Death, 
That freezes us with horror. 

Mary [starting). Take her hence ! 
Take her away from me. I see her 

there ! 
She 's coming to torment me ! 

Walcot {taking her hand). O my 
sister ! 
What frightens you? She neither hears 

nor sees me. 
She 's in a trance. 
Mary. Do you not see her there ? 
Tituba. My child, who is it ? 
Mary. Ah, I do not know. 

I cannot see her face. 

Tituba. How is she clad ? 

Mary. She wears a crimson bodice. 
In her hand 
She holds an image, and is pinching 

it 
Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures 

me ! 
I see her face now. It is Goodwife 

Bishop ! 
Why does she torture me? I never 
harmed her ! 



And now she strikes me with an iron 

rod ! 
O, I am beaten ! 

Mather. _ This is wonderful ! 
I can see nothing ! Is this apparition 
Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it ? 
Hathorne. It is. The spectre is in- 
visible 
Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it. 
Mary. Look ! look ! there is another 
clad in gray ! 
She holds a spindle in her hand, and 

threatens 
To stab me with it ! It is Goodwife 

Corey ! 
Keep her away! Now she is coming 

at me ! 
O mercy ! mercy ! 

Walcot {thrjisting with his sword). 

There is nothing there ! 
Mather {to H athorne). Do you see 

anything ? 
Hathorne. The laws that govern 

The spiritual world prevent our seeing 
Things palpable and visible to her. 
These spectres are to us as if they were 

not. 
Mark her, she wakes. 

(Tituba torches her, ajid she awakes.\ 
Mary. Who are these gentlemen ? 
Walcot. They are our friends- Dear 

Mary, are you better ? 
Mary. Weak, very weak. 

( Taking a spindle from her lap, aitd 
holdiftg it tip. ) 
How came this spindle here ? 
Tituba You wrenched it from the 
hand of Goodwife Corey 
When she rushed at you. 

Hathorne. Mark that, reverend sir ! 
Mather. It is most marvellous, most 

inexplicable ! 
Tituba {picking jcp a bit of gray 
cloth from the floor) . A n d h ere, 
too, is a bit of her gray dress. 
That the sword cut away. 

Mather. Beholding this, 

It were indeed by far more credulous 
To be incredulous than to believe. 
None but a Sadducee, who doubts of all 
Pertaining to the spiritual world, 
Could doubt such manifest and damn- 
ing proofs ! 



178 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Hathorne. Are you convinced? 
Mather {to Mary). Dear child, be 
comforted ! 
Only by prayer and fasting can you drive 
These Unclean Spirits from you. An 

old man 
Gives you his blessing. God be with 
you, Mary ! 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — Giles Corey's farm. 
Morning. E?iter Corey, with a 
horseshoe and a hammer. 

Corey. The Lord hath prospered me. 

The rising sun 
Shines on my Hundred Acres and my 

woods 
As if he loved them. On a morn like 

this 
I can forgive mine enemies, and thank 

God 
For all his goodness unto me and mine. 
My orchard groans with russets and 

pearmains ; 
My lipening corn shines golden in the 

sun ; 
My barns are crammed with hay, my 

cattle thrive ; 
The birds sing blithely on the trees 

around me ! 
And blither than the birds my heart 

within me, 
But Satan still goes up and down the 

earth ; 
And to protect this house from his as- 
saults, 
And keep the powers of darkness from 

my door, 
This horseshoe will I nail upon the 

threshold. 

{Nails down the horseshoe^ 
There, ye night-hags and witches that 

torment 
The neighborhood, ye shall not enter 

here ! — 
What is the matter in the field ? — John 

Gloyd ! 
The cattle are all running to the 

woods ! — 
John Gloyd ! Where is the man ? 

{Enter John Gloyd.) 



Look there • 
What ails the cattle ? Are they all be- 
witched ? 
They run like mad. 

Gloyd. I'hey have been overlooked. 
Corey. The Evil Eye is on them sure 
enough. 
Call all the men. Be quick. Go after 
them ! 

{Exit Gloyd and etiter Martha.) 

Martha. What is amiss ? 
Corey. 1 he cattle are bewitched. 

They are broken loose and making for 
the woods. 
Martha. Why will you harbor such 
delusions, Giles ? 
Bewitched? Well, then it was John 

Gloyd bewitched them ; 
I saw him even now take down the bars 
And turn them loose ! They 're only 
frolicsome. 
Corey. The rascal ! 
Martha. 1 was standing in the road, 
Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I 
saw him. 
Corey. With Proctor's wife? And 

what says Goodwife Proctor ? 
Martha. Sad things indeed ; the 
saddest you can hear 
Of Bridget Bishop. She's cried out 
upon ! 
Corey. Poor soul ! I 've known her 
forty year or more. 
She was the widow Wasselby ; and then 
She married Oliver, and Bishop next. 
She's had three husbands. I remem- 
ber well 
My games of shovel-board at Bishop's 

tavern 
In the old merry days, and she so gay 
With her red paragon bodice and her 

ribbons ! 
Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a 
Witch ! 
Martha. They '11 little help her now, 
— her caps and ribbons 
And her red paragon bodice, and her 

plumes, 
With which she flaunted in the Meeting- 
house ! 
When next she goes there, it will be for 
trial. 
Corey. When will that be ? 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



179 



Martha. This very day at ten. 

Corey. Then get you ready. We 
will go and see it. 
Come ; you shall ride behind me on 
the pillion. 
Martha. Not I. You know I do not 
like such things. 
I wonder you should. _ I do not believe 
In Witches nor in Witchcraft. 

Corey. Well, I do. 

There 's a strange fascination in it all, 
That draws me on and on. I know not 
why. 
Martha. What do we know of spirits 
good or ill, 
Or of their power to help us or to harm 
us? 
Corey. Surely what's in the Bible 
must be true. 
Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul ? 
Did not the Witch of Endor bring the 

ghost 
Of Samuel from his grave ? The Bible 
says so. 
Martha. That happened very long 

ago. 
Corey. With God 

There is no long ago. 
Martha. There is with us. 

Corey- And Mary Magdalene had 
seven devils, 
And he who dwelt among the tombs a 
legion ! 
Martha. God's power is infinite. I 
do not doubt it. 
If in his providence he once permitted 
Such things to be among the Israelites, 
It does not follow he permits them now, 
And among us who are not Israelites. 
But we will not dispute about it, Giles. 
Go to the village, if you think it best. 
And leave me here ; I '11 go about my 
work [Exit into the ho us 3. 

Corey- And I will go and saddle the 
gray mare. 
The last word always. That is wo- 
man's nature. 
If an old man will marry a young wife, 
He must make up his mind to many 

things. 
It 's putting new cloth into an old gar- 
ment, 
When the strain comes, it is *.he old 
gives way. 



{Goes to tJie door.) 

Martha ! I forgot to tell you some- 

thing. 

1 've had a letter from a friend of mine, 
A certain Richard Gardner of Nan- 
tucket, 

Master and owner of a whaling-vessel ; 
He writes that he is coming down to 

see us. 
I hope you '11 like him. 
Martha. I will do my best. 

Corey. That 's a good woman. Now 

I will be gone. 
I 've not seen Gardner for this twenty 

year ; 
But there is something of the sea about 

him, — 
Something so open, generous, large, and 

strong, 
It makes me love him better than a 

brother. \^Exit, 

(Martha comes to the door.) 

Martha. O these old friends and 

cronies of my husband, 
These captains from Nantucket and the 

Cape, 
That come and turn my house into a 

tavern 
With their carousing ! Still, there 's 

something frank 
In these seafaring men that makes me 

like them. 
Why, here 's a horseshoe nailed upon 

the doorstep ! 
Giles has done this to keep away the 

Witches. 
I hope this Richard Gardner will bring 

with him 
A gale of good sound common-sense, to 

blow 
The fog of these delusions from his 

brain ! 
Corey {withiji). Ho ! Martha ! Mar- 
tha ! 

{Enter Corey.) 

Have you seen my saddle \ 
Martha. I saw it yesterday. 
Corey. Where did you see it? 

Martha. On a gray mare, that some 
body was riding 
Along the village road. 

Corey. Who was it ' Tell ma 



i8o 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Martha. Some one who should have 

stayed at home. 
Corey \restrai71h1g himself^. I see ! 
Don't vex me, Martha. Tell me where 
it is. 
Martha. I 've hidden it away. 
Corey. Go fetch it me. 

Martha. Go find it. 
Corey. No. I '11 ride 

down to the village 
Bare-back ; and when the people stare 

and say, 
" Giles Corey, where 's your saddle ? " 

I will answer, 
•'A Witch has stolen it." How shall 
you like that? 
iMartha. I shall not like it. 
Corey. Then go fetch the saddle. 
[Exit Martha. 
If an old man will marry a young wife, 
Why then — why then — why then — 
he must spell Baker ! * 

{Enter Martha zvith the saddle, 
which she throivs doivn.) 

Martha. There ! There 's the sad- 
dle. 

Corey. Take it up. 

Martha. I won't ! 

Corey Then let it lie there. I '11 
ride to the village. 
And say you are a Witch. 

Martha. No, not that, Giles. 

{^She takes up the saddle.) 

Corey. Now come with me, and sad- 
dle the gray mare 
With your own hands ; and you shall 

see me ride 
Along the village road as is becoming 
Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your 
husband ! \^Exe7(nt. 

SCFNE TI. — The Green in front of 
the Meeting-ho7ise in Salem Village. 
People coining and going. Enter 
Giles Corey. 

Corey. A melancholy end ! Who 
would have thought 

* A local expression for doin? anything 
difficult. In the old spelling^-books. Baker 
was the first word of two syllables, and when 
a child came to it he thought he had a hard 
task before him. 



I That Bridget Bishop e'er would come 
j to this? 

Accused, convicted, and condemned to 

death 
For Witchcraft ! And so good a wo- 
man too ! 
A Farmer. Good morrow, neighbor 

Corey. 
Corey {jnot hearing hint). Who is 
safe? 
How do I know but under my own 

roof 
I too may harbor Witches, and some 

Devil 
Be plotting and contriving against 
me ? 
Farmer. He does not hear. Good 

morrow, neighbor Corey ! 
Corey. Good morrow. 
Farmer. Have you seen John Proc- 
tor lately ? 
Corey. No, I have not. 
Farj7ier. Then do not see him, Corey. 
Corey. Why should I not ? 
Farmer. Because he 's angry with 
you. 
So keep out of his way. Avoid a quar- 
rel. 
Corey. Why does he seek to fix a 

quarrel on me ? 
Fatjuer. He says you burned his 

house. 
Corey. 1 bum his house ? 

If he sajs that, John Proctor is a 

liar ! 
The night his house was burned I was 

in bed. 
And I can prove it ! Why, >^e are old 

friends ! 
He rould not say that of me. 

Farmer. He did say it. 

I heard him say it. 

Corey. Then he shall unsay it 

Farmer. He said you did it out of 
spite to him 
For taking part against you in the 

quarrel 
Vou had with your John Gloyd about 

his wages. 
He says you murdered Goodell ; that 

you trampled 
Upon his body till he breathed no more 
And so beware of him ; that 's my ad 
vice ! \^Exit. 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS . 



i8i 



Corey. By Heaven ! this is too much ! 
I '11 seek him out, 

And make him eat his words, or stran- 
gle him. 

I '11 not be slandered at a time like this, 

When every word is made an accusa- 
tion. 

When every whisper kills, and every 
man 

Walks with a halter round his neck ! 

{Enter Gloyd in ha te.) 

What now? 
Gloyd. I came to look for you. The 

cattle — 

Corey. Well, 

What of them ? Have you found them ? 

Gloyd . They are dead. 

I followed them through the woods, 

across the meadows ; 
Then they all leaped into the Ipswich 

River, 
And swam across, but could not climb 

the bank, 
And so were drowned. 

Corey. You are to blame for this ; 
For you took down the bars, and let 
them loose. 
Gloyd. That I deny. They broke 
the fences down. 
You know they were bewitched. 

Corey. Ah, my poor cattle ! 

The Evil Eye was on them ; that is 

true. 
Day of disaster ! Most unlucky day ! 
Why did I leave my ploughing and my 

reaping 
To plough and reap this Sodom and 

Gomorrah? 
O, I could drown myself for sheer vexa- 
tion ! \_Exit. 
Gloyd. He 's going for his cattle. 
He won't find them. 
By this time they have drifted out to 

sea. 
They \\ ill not break his fences any more, 
Though they may break his heart. And 
what care I ? \_Exit. 

Scene III. — Coylky'''?, kitchen- A table 
with supper. Martha ktiitting. 



Martha. He 's come at last, 
him in the passage. 



I hear 



Something has gone amiss with him to- 
day ; 
I know it by his step, and by the sound 
The door made as he shut it. He is 
angry. 

{Enter Corey with his riding-whip. 
As he speaks, he takes off his hat 
and gloves, and throws them down 
violently.) 

Corey. I say if Satan ever entered 
man 
He 's in John Proctor ! 

Martha. Giles, what is the matter? 
You frighten me. 

Corey. I say if any man 

Can have a Devil in him, then that 

man 
Is Proctor, — is John Proctor, and no 
other ! 
Martha. Why, what has he been 

doing ? 
Corey. Everything ! 

What do you think I heard there in the 
village? 
Martha. I 'm sure I cannot guess. 

What did you hear? 
Corey. He says I burned his house ! 
Martha. Does he say that ? 

Corey. He says I burned his house. 
I was in bed 
And fast asleep that night ; and I can 
prove it. 
Martha. If he says that, I think the 
Father of Lies 
Is surely in the man. 

Corey. He does say that. 

And that I did it to wreak vengeance on 

him 
For taking sides against me in the 

quarrel 
I had with that John Gloyd about his 

wages. 
And God knows that I never bore him 

malice 
For that, as I have told him twenty 
times ! 
Martha. It is John Gloyd has stirred 
him up to this 
I do not like that Gloyd. I think him 

crafty, 
Not to be trusted, sullen, and untruthful. 
Come, have your supper. You are tired 
and hungry. 



lS2 



THE NEIV-ENGLAXD TRAGEDIES. 



Corey. I 'm angry, and not hungry. 
Martha. Do eat something. 

You '11 be the better for it. 

Corey {sitting down). I 'm not hun- 

MartJia. Let not the sun go down 

upon your wrath. 
Corey. It has gone down upon it, and 

will rise 
To-morrow, and go down again upon it. 
They have trumped up against me the 

old sXoxy 
Of causing Goodell's death by tram- 
pling on him. 
Martha. O, that is false. I know it 

to be false. 
Corey. He has been dead these four- 
teen years or more. 
Why can't they let him rest? Why 

must they drag him 
Out of his grave to give me a bad name? 
I did not kill him. In his bed he died, 
As most men die, because his hour had 

come. 
I have wronged no man. Why should 

Proctor say 
Such things about me ? I will not for- 
give him 
Till he confesses he has slandered me. 
Then, I 've more trouble. All my cattle 

gone. 

Martha. They will come back again. 

Corey. Not in this world. 

Did I not tell vou they were overlooked ? 

They ran down through the woods, into 

the meadows, 
And tried to swim the river, and were 

drowned. 
It is a heavy loss. 
MartJia. ' I 'm sorry for it. 

Corey. All my dear oxen dead. I 

loved them, Martha, 
Next to yourself I liked to look at 

them, 
And watch the breath come out of their 

wide nostrils. 
And see their patient eyes. Somehow 

I thought 
It gave me strength only to look at 

them. 
And how they strained their necks 

against the yoke 
If I but spoke, or touched them with 

the goad ! 



They were my friends ; and when Gloyd 
came and told me 

They were all drowned, I could have 
drowned myself 

From sheer vexation ; and I said as 
much 

To Gloyd and others. 

Martha. Do not trust John Gloyd 

With anything you would not have re- 
peated. 
Corey. As I came through the woods 
this afternoon, 

Impatient at my loss, and much per- 
plexed 

With all that I had heard there in the 
village. 

The yellow leaves lit up the trees about 
me. 

Like an enchanted palace, and I wished 

I knew enough of magic or of Witch- 
craft 

To change them into gold. Then sud- 
denly 

A tree shook down some crimson leaves 
upon me, 

Like drops of blood, and in the path 
before me 

Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone. 
Martha. Were you not frightened ? 
Corey. No, I do not think 

I know the meaning of that word. 
Why frightened ? 

I am not one of those who think the 
Lord 

Is waiting till he catches them some day 

In the back vard alone ! What should 
I fear? 

She started from the bushes by the 
path, 

And had a basket full of herbs and roots 

For some witch-broth or other, — the 
old hag ! 
Martha. She has been here to-day. 
Corey. With hand outstretched 

She said : " Giles Corev, will you sign 
the Book?" 

" Avaunt ! " I cried : " Get thee behind 
me, Satan ! " 

At which she laughed and left me. 
But a voice 

Was whispering in my ear continually : 

" Self-murder is no crime. The life of 
man 

\i his, to keep it or to throw away ! " 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



183 



- Martha. 'T was a temptation of the 

Evil One ! 
Giles, Giles ! why will you harbor 
these dark thoughts ? 
Corey {rising). I am too tired to talk. 

I '11 go to bed. 
Martha. First tell me something 
about Bridget Bishop. 
How did she look ? You saw her ? You 
were there ? 
Corey. I '11 tell you that to-morrow, 
not to-night. 
I '11 go to bed. 
Martha. First let us pray together. 
Corey. I cannot pray to-night. 
Martha. Say the Lord's Prayer, 

And that will comfort you, 

Corey. I cannot say, 

"As we forgive those that have sinned 

against us," 
When I do not forgive them. 
Martha {kneeling on the hearth)* 

God forgive you ! 
Corey. I will not make believe ! I 
say, to-night 
There's something thwarts me when I 

wish to pray, 
And thrusts into my mind, instead of 

prayers, 
Hate and revenge, and things that are 

not prayers. 
Something of my old self, — my old, 

bad life, — 
And the old Adam in me, rises up, 
And will not let me pray. I am afraid 
The Devil hinders me. You know I say 
Just what I think, and nothing more 

nor less, 
And, when I pray, my heart is in my 

prayer. 
I cannot say one thing and mean 

another. 
If I can't pray, I will not make believe ! 
{Exit Corey. Martha continjces 
kneeling.) 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Giles Corey's kitchen. 
Morning. Corey and Martha 
sitting at the hreakfast-table . 
Corey {rising). Well, now I 've told 
you all I saw and heard 



Of Bridget Bishop ; and I must be gone. 
Martha. Don't go into the village, 
Giles, to-day. 

Last night you came back tired and out 
of humor. 
Corey. Say, angry ; say, right angry. 
I was never 

In a more devilish temper in my life. 

All things went wrong with me. 
Martha. You were much vexed ; 

So don't go to the village. 

Corey {goijtg). No, I won't. 

I won't go near it. We are going to 
mow 

The Ipswich meadows for the after- 
math, 

The crop of sedge and rowens. 

Martha. Stay a moment. 

I want to tell you what I dreamed last 
night. 

Do you believe in dreams ? 

Corey. Why, yes and no. 

When they come true, then I believe in 
them ; 

When they come false, I don't believe 
in them. 

But let me hear. What did you dream 
about? 
Martha. I dreamed that you and I 
were both in prison ; 

That we had fetters on our hands and 
feet ; 

That we were taken before the Magis- 
trates, 

And tried for Witchcraft, and con- 
demned to death ! 

I wished to pray ; they would not let 
me pray ; 

You tried to comfort me, and they for- 
bade it. 

But the most dreadful thing in all my 
dream 

Was that they made you testify against 
me ! 

And then there came a kind of mist be- 
tween us ; 

I could not see you ; and I woke in ter- 
ror. 

I never was more thankful in my life 

Than when I found you sleeping at my 
side ! 
Corey {with tenderness). It was our 
talk last night that made you 
dream. 



i84 



THE NEW-EXGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



I 'm sorry for it. I '11 control myself 

Another time, and keep my temper 
down ! 

I do not like such dreams. — Remem- 
ber, Martha, 

I 'm going to mow the Ipswich River 
meadows ; 

If Gardner comes, you Ml tell him where 
to find me. ^Exit. 

iMartJia. So this delusion grows from 
bad to worse. 

First, a forsaken and forlorn old woman, 

Ragged and wTetched, and without a 
friend ; 

Then something higher. Now it 's 
Bridget Bishop ; 

God only knows whose tuni it will be 
next : 

The Magistrates are blind, the people 
mad ! 

If they would only seize the Afflicted 
Children, 

And put them in the Workhouse, where 
they should be. 

There 'd be an end of all this wicked- 
ness. lExit. 



Scene II. — A street in Salem Village 
Enter Mather and Hathorne. 

Mather. Yet one thing troubles me. 

Ilathorne, And what is that ? 

Mather. May not the Devil take the 

outward shape 

Of innocent persons ? Are we not in 

danger, 
Perhaps, of punishing some w ho are 
not guilty? 
Hathortie. As I have said, we do not 
trust alone 
To spectral evidence. 

Mather. And then again, 

If any shall be put to death for Witch- 
craft, 
We do but kill the body, not the soul. 
The Unclean Spirits that possessed 

theni once 
Live still, to enter into other bodies. 
What have we gained? Surely, there 's 
nothing gained. 
Hathoryie. Doth not the Scripture 
say, " Thou shalt not suffer 
A Witch' to live "? 
Math.r. The Scripture sayeth it, 



But speaketh to the Jews ; and we arc 

Christians. 
What say the laws of England ? 

Hathorne. They make Witchcraft 
Felony without the benefit of Clerg>'. 
Witches are burned in England. You 

have read — 
For you read all things, not a book 

escapes you — 
The famous Demonology of King 
James? 
Mather. A curious volume. I re- 
member also 
The plot of the Two Hundred, with 

one Fian, 
The Registrar of the Devil, at their 

head, 
To drown his Majesty on his return 
From Denmark ; how they sailed in 

sieves or riddles 
Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lothian, 
And, landing there, danced hand in 

hand, and sang, 
" Goodwife, go ve before I goodwife, go 

ye! 
If 3'e '11 not go beiore, goodwife, let 

me!" 
While Geilis Duncan played the 

Witches' Reel 
Upon a jews-haip. 

Hathor7ie. Then you know full well 
The Engli.<;h law, and that in England 

Witches, 
When lawfully convicted and attainted, 
Are put to death 

Mather When lawfully convicted ; 
That is the point. 

Hathorne. You heard the evidence 
Produced before us yesterday at the 

trial 
Of Bridget Bishop. 

Math.r. One of the Afflicted, 

I know, bore witness to the apparition 
Ofghosts unto the spectre of this Bishop, 
Saying, " You nmrdered us ! " of the 

truth whereof 
There v\as in matter of fact too much 
suspicion. 
Hathorne. And when she cast her 
eyes on the Afflicted, 
They were struck down ; and this in 

such a manner 
There could be no collusion in the 
business. 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



185 



And wlien the accused but laid her 
hand upon them, 

As they lay in their swoons, they straight 
revived. 

Although they stirred not when the 
others touched them. 
Mtither. What most convinced me 
of the woman's guilt 

Was finding hidden in her cellar wall 

Those poppets made of rags, with head- 
less pins 

Stuck into them point outwards, and 
whereof 

She could not give a reasonable account. 
Hathorjie. When you shall read the 
testimony given 

Before the Court in all the other cases, 

I am persuaded you will find the proof 

No less conclusive than it was in this. 

Come, then, with me, and I will tax 
your patience 

With reading of the documents so far 

As may convince you that these sorcer- 
ers 

Are lawfully convicted and attainted. 

Like doubting Thomas, you shall lay 
your hand 

Upon these wounds, and you will doubt 
no more. \_Exeu7it. 

Scene III. — A room hi Corey's 
hotise. Martha ajid two Deacons 
of the church. 

Martha,. Be seated. I am glad to 
see you here. 
I know what you are come for. You 

are come 
To question me, and learn from my 

own lips 
If I have any dealings with the Devil; 
In short, if I 'm a Witch. 
Deaco7i {sitting down). Such is our 
purpose. 
How could you know beforehand why 
we came ? 
Martha. 'T was only a surmise. 
Deacon _ We came to ask you, 

Youjbeing with us in church covenant, 
What part you have, if any, in these 
matters. 
Martha. And I make answer. No 
part whatsoever. 
I am a farmer's wife, a working woman ; 



You see my spinning-wheel, you see my 

loom. 
You know the duties of a farmer's wife, 
And are not ignorant that my life among 

you 
Has been without reproach until this 

day. 
Is it not true ? 
Deacon. So much we 're bound to 

own ; 
And say it frankly, and without reserve. 
Martha. I 've heard the idle tales 

that are abroad ; 
I 've heard it whispered that I am a 

W^itch; 
I cannot help it. I do not believe 
In any Witchcraft. It is a delusion. 
Deaco7i. How can you say that it is 

a delusion, 
When all our learned and good men 

believe it? — 
Our Ministers and worshipful Magis- 
trates? 
Martha. Their eyes are blinded, and 

see not the truth. 
Perhaps one day they will be open to it. 
Deacon. You answer boldly. The 

Afflicted Children 
Say you appeared to them. 

Martha. And did they say 

What clothes I came in ? 

^ Deacon. No, they could not tell 

They said that you foresaw our visit here. 
And blinded them, so that ihey could 

not see 
The clothes you wore. 

Martha. The cunning, crafty girls ! 
I say to you, in all sincerity, 
I never have appeared to any one 
In my own person. If the Devil takes 
My shape to hurt these children, or 

afflict them, 
I am not guilty of it. And I say 
It's all a mere delusion of the senses. 
Deaco7i. I greatly fear that you wiU 

find too late 
It is not so. 
Ma7-tha {rising). They do accuse me 

falsely. 
It is delusion, or it is deceit. 
'J'here is a story in the ancient Scriptures 
Which much I wonder comes not to 

your minds. 
Let me repeat it to you. 



x86 



THE ^EW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Deacon. We will hear it 

Mctrtha. It came to pass that Na- 

both had a vineyard 
Hard by the palace of the Kiitg called 

Ahab. 
And Ahab, King of Israel, spake to 

Naboth, 
And said to him. Give imto me thy 

vineyard. 
That I may have it for a garden of 

herbs. 
And I will give a better vineyard for it. 
Or, if it seemech good to thee, its worth 
In money. And then Naboth said to 

Ahab, 
The Lord tiwbid it me that I ^oold give 
The inhi^tance of my fathers unto thee. 
And Ahab came into his house dis- 
pleased 
And heavy at the words which Naboth 

^>ake. 
And laid him down upon his bed, and 

turned 
His &ce away ; and he would eat no 

bread. 
And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, came 
And said to him. Why is thy ^irit sad ? 
And he said unto her. Because I spake 
To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and said. 
Give me thy vineyard ; and he an- 
swered, saying, 
I win not give my vineyard tmto thee. 
And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, said. 
Dost thou not rule the realm of Israel ? 
Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart be 

merry ; 
I win give Naboth's vineyard tmto thee. 
So she wrote letters iii King Ahab*s 

name. 
And sealed them with his seal, and sent 

the letters 
Unto the elders that were in his city 
Dwelling with Naboth, and unto the 

nobles; 
And in the letters wrote. Proclaim a 

&st: 
And set this Naboth high among the 

people. 
And set two men, the sons of Belial, 
Before him, to bear witness and to say. 
Thou didst blaspheme against God and 

the King ; 
AxkI carrv him out and stone him, that 

he'die ! 



And the elders and the nobles of the 

city 
Did even as Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, 
Had sent to them and written in the 

letters. 
And then it came to pass, when Ahab 

heard 
Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose to go 
Down unto Naboth's vineyzird, and to 

take 
Possession of iL And the word of 

God 
Came to Elijah, saying to him. Arise, 
Go down to meet the King of Israel 
In Naboth's vineyard, whither he hath 

gone 
To take possession. Thou shalt speak 

to him. 
Saying, Thus saith the Lord ! What ! 

hast thou kiUed 
And also taken possession? In the 

place 
Wherein the dogs have lidced the blood 

of Naboth 
Shan the dogs lick thy blood, — ay, even 

thine ! 
{B^ftkqftJu Deacons start /rem tluir 

seats.) 
And Ahab then, the King of Israel, 
Said, Hast thou found me, O mine en- 
emy? 
Elijah the Prophet answered, I have 

found thee ! 
So win it be with those who have stirred 

up 
The Sons of Belial here to bear felse 

witness 
And swear away the lives of innocent 

people ; 
Their enemy will find them out at last. 
The Prophet's voice will thunder, I 

have found thee ! [Exettni. 



ScEXE TV.— Meadows on Ipswich 
Rruer. Corey and his men mow- 
ing ; Corey in ad-rance. 
Corey. WeU done, my men. You 
see, I lead the field ! 
I *m an old man, but I can swing a scythe 
Better than most of you, though you be 
younger. 
{Hangs his scythe npon a tree ) 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



i^/ 



Gloyd {aside _ to the others). How 
strong he is ! It 's supernatural. 
No man so old as he is has such strength. 
The Devil helps him ! 

Corey {wiping his forehead). Now 
we '11 rest awhile, 
And take our nooning. What 's the 

matter with you ? 
You are not angry with me,— are you, 

Gloyd ? 
Come, come, we will not quarrel. Let 's 

be friends. 
It 's an old story, that the Raven said, 
" Read the Third of Colossians and fif- 
teenth." 
Gloyd. You 're handier at the scythe, 
but I can beat you 
At wrestling. 

Corey- Well, perhaps so. I don't 
know. 
I never wrestled with you. Why, you 

're vexed ! 
Come, come, don't bear a grudge. 
Gloyd. You are afraid. 

Corey. What should I be afraid of? 
All bear witness 
The challenge comes from him. Now, 

then, my man. 
{They wrestle., and Gloyd is thrown.) 

One of the Men. That 's a fair fall. 
Another. 'T was nothing but a foil ! 
Others. You 've hurt him ! 
Corey {helpi7tg Gloyd rise). No ; 
this meadow-land is soft. 
You 're not hurt, — are you, Gloyd ? 
Gloyd {rising). No, not much hurt ! 
Corey. Well, then, shake hands ; 
and there 's an end of it. 
How do you like that Cornish hug, my 

lad? 
And now we'll see what 's in our basket 
here. 
Gloyd {aside). The Devil and all his 
imps are in that man ! 
The clutch of his ten fingers burns like 
fire! 
Corey {reverentially taking off his 
hat). God bless the food he hath 
provided for us, 
And make us thankful for it, for Christ's 

sake ! 
{He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks 
from it.) 



Gloyd. Do you see that ? Don't tefl 
me it 's not Witchcraft. 
Two of us could not lift that cask as he 
does ! 

(Corey puts down the keg, and opens a 
basket. A voice is heard calling) 

V oic-*-. Ho ! Corey, Corey ! 
Corey. What is that ? I surely 

Heard some one calling me by name ! 
Voice. Giles Corey ! 

{Enter a boy, running, and out of 
breath.) 

Boy. Is Master Corey here ? 
Corey. Yes, here I am. 

Boy. O Master Corey ! 
Corey. Well ? 

Boy. Your wife — your wife — 

Corey. What 's happened to my wife ? 
Boy. She 's sent to prison ! 

Corey. The dream ! the dream ! O 

God, be merciful ! 
Boy. She sent me here to tell you. 
Corey {putting on his jacket). 

Where 's my horse ? 
Don't stand there staring, fellows. 

Where 's my horse ? 

[Exit Corey. 

Gloyd. Under the trees there. Run, 
old man, run, run ! 

You 've got some one to wrestle with you 
now 

Who '11 trip your heels up, with your 
Cornish hug. 

If there 's a Devil, he has got you now. 

Ah, there he goes ! His horse is snort- 
ing fire ! 
One of the Men- John Gloyd, don't 
talk so! It 's a shame to talk so ! 

He 's a good master, though you quar- 
rel with him. 
Gloyd. If hard work and low wages 
make good masters, 

Then he is one. But I think otherwise. 

Come, let us have our dinner and be 
merry, 

And talk about the old man and the 
Witches. 

I know some stories that will make you 
laugh. 

(They sit doivn on the grass, and eat | 



[88 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody 

Good. 
Who have not got a decent tooth be- 
tween them, 
And yet these children — the Afflicted 

Children — 
Say that they bite them, and show marks 

of teeth 
Upon their arms ! 
07ie of iiie Men. That makes the 
wonder greater. 
That 's Witchcraft. Why, if they had 

teeth like yours, 
'T would be no wonder if the girls were 
bitten ! 
Gloyd. And then those ghosts that 
come out of their graves 
And cry," You murdered us ! you mur- 
dered us ! " 
One of the MeJt. And all those Appa- 
ritions that stick pins 
Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children ! 
G/oyd. O those Afflicted Children ! 
they know well 
Where the pins come from. I can tell 

3'ou that. 
And there 's old Corey, he has got a 

horseshoe 
Nailed on his doorstep to keep oflf the 

Witches, 
And all the same his wife has gone to 
prison. 
0?ie oftJie Men. O, she 's no Witch. 
I '11 swear that Goodwife Corey 
Never did harm to any living creature. 
She 's a good woman, if there ever was 
one. 
Gloyd. Well, we shall see. As for 
that Bridget Bishop, 
She has been tried before ; some years 

ago 
A negro testified he saw her shape 
Sitting upon the rafters in a bam. 
And holding in its hand an egg ; and 

while 
He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had 

vanished. 
And now be quiet, wnll you ? I am tired. 
And want to sleep here on the grass a 
little. 

^Tkey stretch themselves on the grass ) 

Ofie of tlie Men. There may be 
Witches riding through the air 



Over our heads on broomsticks at this 

moment. 
Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the 

woods 
To be baptized. 

Gloyd. I wish they 'd take 

you with them, 
And hold you under water, head and 

ears. 
Till you were drowned ; and that would 

stop your talking, 
If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — TJie Green i?ifro7it of t/ie 
village Meethig-Jumse. A n excited 
cro^'d gathering. Enter John 
Gloyd. 

A Fanner. Who will be tried to-day ? 

A Secojid I do not know. 

Here is John Gloyd. Ask him ; he 

knows. 

Far7ner. John Gloyd, 

Whose turn is it to day? 

Gloyd. It 's Goodwife Corey's. 

Fanner. Giles Corey's wife? 
Gloyd. The same. She is not mine. 
It will go hard with her with all her 

praying. 
The hypocrite ! She 's always on her 

knees ; 
But she prays to the Devil when she 

prays. 
Let us go in. 

{A trumpet blows.) 
Farmer. Here come the Magistrates. 
Secojid Farmer. Who 's the tall 

man in front ? 
Gloyd. O, that is Hathome, 

A Justice of the Court, and Quarter- 
master 
In the Three County Troop. He'll 

sift the matter. 
That 's Corwin with him ; and the man 

in black 
Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Boston. 
{E?iter H.\THORNE afid other Magis- 
trates on Jwrseback, followed by the 
Sheriffs coitstaHes., and attendants 
on foot. Tlie Mas^istrates disvnount 
and enter the Meetinghonse, iv:t'> 
th: rest.) 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



Farmer. The Meeting-house is full. 
I never saw 
So great a crowd before. 

Gloyd. No matter. Come. 

We shall find room enough by elbow- 
ing 
Our way among them. Put your 
shoulder to it. 
Farmer. There were not half so many 
at the trial 
Of Goodwife Bishop. 

Gloyd. Keep close after me. 

I 'U find a place for you. They '11 want 

me there. 
I am a friend of Corey's, as you know. 
And he can't do without me just at pres- 
ent. {_Exeuni. 

Scene II. — Interior of the Meetin^- 
hotise. Mather and the Magis- 
trates seated in front of the pulpit. 
Before thejn a raised platform. 
Martha i7i chains. Corey near 
her. Mary Walcot in a chair. 
A crowd of spectators, among 
them. Gloyd. Confusion and 
murmurs during the scene. 

Hathorne. Call Martha Corey. 
Martha. I am here. 

Hathorne. Come forward. 

{She ascends the plaform.) 

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and 
Lady 

The King and Queen, here present, do 
accuse you 

Of having on the tenth of June last 
past, 

And divers other times before and after, 

Wickedly used and practised certain 
arts 

Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and In- 
cantations, 

Against one Mary Walcot, single wo- 
man, 

Of Salem Village ; by which wicked 
arts 

The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tor- 
mented. 

Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, 
and wasted, 

Against the peace of our Sovereign 
Lord and Lady 



The King and Queen, as well as of the 

Statute 
Made and provided in that case. What 
say you ? 
Martha. Before I answer, give me 

leave to pray. 
Hathorne. We have not sent for you, 
nor are we here. 
To hear you pray, but to examine you 
In whatsoever is alleged against you. 
Whv do you hurt this person? 

Martha. I do not. 

I am not guilty of the charge against 
me. 
Mary. Avoid, she-devil ! You tor- 
ment me now ! 
Avoid, avoid, Witch ! 

Martha. I am innocent. 

I never had to do with any Witchcraft 
Since I was born. I am a gospel wo- 
man. 
Mary. You are a gospel Witch ! 
Martha {clasping her hands). Ah 
me ! ah me ! 
O, give me leave to pray ! 

Mary {stretching otd her hands). 
She hurts me now. 
See, she has pinched my hands ! 

Hathor7te. Who made these marks 
Upon her hands ? 

Martha. I do not know. I stand 
Apart from her. I did not touch her 
hands. 
Hathorne. Who hurt her then ? 
Martha. I know not. 

Ilcithorne Do you think 

She is bewitched ? 

Martha. Indeed I do not think so. 
I am no Witch, and have no faith in 
Witches. 
Hathorne. Then answer me : When 
certain persons came 
To see you yesterday, how did you know 
Beforehand why they came ? 

Martha. ' I had had speech. 

The children said I hurt them, and I 

thought 
These people came to question me 
about it. 
Hathorne. How did you know the 
children had been told 
To note the clothes you wore ? 

Martha. My husband told me 

What others said about it. 



igO 



THE NEW-ENGLAXD TRAGEDIES. 



HatJiorne. Goodman Corey, 

Say, did you tell her ? 

Corey. I must speak the truth ; 

I did not tell her. It was some one 
else. 
Hathorfie. Did you not say your 
husband told you so ? 
How dare you tell a lie in this assembly ? 
Who told you of the clothes? Confess 
the truth. 

[Martha bites her lips, ajid is silent.) 
You bite your lips, but do not answer 
me I 
Mary. Ah, she is biting me ! Avoid, 

avoid : 
Hathorfie. You said your husband 

told you. 
Martha. Yes, he told me 

The children said I troubled them. 

Hathorne. Then tell me, 

Why do you trouble them ? 

Martha. I have denied it. 

Mary. She threatened me ; stabbed 
at me with her spindle ; 
And, when my brother ihrust her with 

his sword. 
He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. 
Here are they both, the spindle and the 
cloth. 

{Shows them.) 
Hathorne. And there are persons 
here who know the truth 
Of what has now been said. What 
answer make you ? 
Martha. I make no answer. Give 

me leave to pray. 
Hathorne. Whom would you pray 

to? 
Martha. To my God and Father. 
Hathorfie. Who is your God and 

Father? 
Martha. The Almighty ! 

Hathorne. Doth he you pray to say 
that he is God ? 
It is the Prince of Darkness, and not 
God. 
Mary. There is a dark shape whis- 
pering in her ear. 
Hathorne. What does he say to you ? 
Martha. I see no shape. 

Hathorne. Did you not hear it whis- 



per .-• 
Martha. 



I heard nothing. I 



Mary. What torture ! Ah, what 
agony I suffer ! 

{Falls into a swoon. ) 

Hathorne. You see this woman can- 
not stand before you. 
If you would look for mercy, you must 

look 
In God's way, by confession of your 

guilt. 
Why does your spectre haunt and hurt 
this person ? 
Martha. I do not know. He who 
appeared of old 
In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, 
May come in whatsoever shape he 

chooses. 
I cannot help it. I am sick at heart ! 
Corey. O Martha, Martha ! let me 

hold your hand. 
Hathorne. No ; stand aside, old 

man. 
Mary {starting u/). Look there ! 
Look there I 
I see a little bird, a yellow bird, 
Perched on her finger ; and it pecks at 

me 
Ah, it will tear mine ejes out ! 

Martha. I see nothing. 

Hath'irne. 'T is the Familiar Spirit 

that attends her. 
Mary. Now it has flown away. It 
sits up there 
L'pon the rafters. It is gone ; is van- 
ished. 
Martha. Giles, wipe these tears of 
anger from mine eyes. 
Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I 
am faint. 

{She leans against the railing.) 

Mary. O, she is crushing me with 

all her weight ! 
Hathorne. Did you not carr>' once 
the Devil's Book 
To this voung woman ? 

Mariiui. Never. 

Hathorne. Have you signed it. 

Or touched it? 

Martha. No ; I never saw it. 

Hathorne. Did you not scourge her 

with an iron rod ? 
Martha. No, I did not. If any E\'i] 
Spirit 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



191 



Has taken my shape to do these evil 

deeds, 
I cannot help it. I am innocent, 
Hathor'ne. Did you not say the 
Magistrates were blind ? 
That you would open their eyes ? 
MartJia {with a scor^ifid laiigli). 
Yes, I said that ; 
If you call me a sorceress, you are blind ! 
If'vou accuse the innocent, you are 

blind ! 
Can the innocent be guilty ? 

Hathorne. Did you not 

On one occasion hide your husband's 

saddle 
To hinder him from coming to the Ses- 
sions ? 
MartJia. I thought it was a folly in a 
farmer 
To waste his time pursuing such illu- 
sions. 
Hathorne. What was the bird that 
this young woman saw 
Just now upon your hand ? 

Martha. ' I know no bird. 

HatJiorne. Have you not dealt with 

a Familiar Spirit ? 
Martha. No, never, never ! 
Hathorne. What then w^as the Book 
You showed to this young woman, and 

besought her 
To write in it ? 

Martha. Where should I have 

a book ? 
I showed her none, nor have none. 

Mary. The next Sabbath 

Is the Communion-Day, but Martha 

Corey 
Will not be there ! 

Martha- Ah, you are all against me. 
What can I do or say ? 

Hathorne. You can confess, 

Martha. No, I cannot, for I am in- 
nocent. 
Hathorne. We have the proof of 
many witnesses 
That you are guilty. 

Martha. Give me leave to speak. 
Will you condemn me on such evi- 
dence, — 
You who have known me for so many 

years ? 
Will you condemn me in this house of ■ 
God, i 



\^ 



Where I so long have worshipped with 

you all ? 
Where I have eaten the bread and 

drunk the wine 
So many times at our Lord's Table with 

you ? 
Bear witness, you that hear me ; you all 

know 
That I have led a blameless life among 

you. 
That never any whisper of suspicion 
Was breathed against me till this accu- 
sation. 
And shall this count for nothing? Will 

you take 
My life away from me, because this girl. 
Who is distraught, and not in her right 

mind, 
Accuses me of things I blush to name ? 
Hathorjte. What ! is it not enough ? 

Would you hear more ? 
Giles Corey ! 

Corey. I am here. 

Hathorne. Come forward, then. 

(Corey ascends the platform.') 

Is it not true, that on a certain night 
You were impeded strangely in your 

prayers? 
That something hindered you ? and 

that you left 
This woman here, your wife, kneeling 

alone 
Upon the hearth ? 

Corey. Yes ; I cannot deny it, 

Hathorne. Did you not say the Devil 

hindered you ? 
Corey. I think I said some words to 

that eflfect. 
Hathorne. Is it not true, that four- 
teen head of cattle. 
To you belonging, broke fi-om their en- 
closure 
And leaped into the river, and were 
drowned ? 
Corey. It is most true. 
Hathorne. And did you not then say 
That they were overlooked ? 

Corey. So much I said. 

I see ; they 're drawing round me closer, 

closer, 
A net I cannot break, cannot escape 
from ! {Aside.) 
Hathorne. Who did these things ? 



192 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



Corey. I do not know who did them. 
Hathorne. Then I will tell you. It 
is some one near you ; 
You see her now ; this woman, your 
own wife. 
Corey' I call the heavens to witness, 
it is false ! 
She neverharmed me,neverhinderedme 
In anything but what I should not do. 
And I bear witness in the sight of 

heaven, 
And in God's house here, that I never 

knew her 
As otherwise than patient, brave, and 

true, 
Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, 
A virtuous and industrious and good 
wife ! 
HaiJtorne. Tut, tut, man ; do not 
rant so in your speech ; 
You are a witness, not an advocate ! 
Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to 
prison. 
Martha. O Giles, this day you 've 

sworn away my life ! 
Mary. Go, go and join the Witches 
at the door. 
Do you not hear the drum ? Do you 

not see them ? 
Go quick. They *re waiting for you. 

You are late. 
{Exit Martha ; Co-ry.\ followtfig .) 
Corey. The dream I the dream ! the 

dream ! 
Hathorue' What does he say ? 

Giles Corey, go not hence. You are 

yourself 
Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcer>' 
By many witnesses. Say.areyou guilty? 
Corey. I know my death is foreor- , 
dained by you, — I 

Mine and my wife's. Therefore I \\ill 

not answer. I 

{Dtiring the rest of the scene he remains 
siient.) 
Hathorne. Do you refuse to plead? — 
' t were better for you 
To make confession, or to plead Not 

Guilty.— 
Do you not hear me ? — Answer, are 

you guilty? 
Do you not know a heavier doom awaits 
you, 



If you refuse to plead, than if found 

guilty ? 
Where is John Gloyd ? 

Gloyd {coynifig forward). Heream I. 

Hathorne. Tell the Court ; 

Have you not seen the supematuralpower 

Of this old man ? Have you not seen 

him do 
Strange feats of strength? 

Gloyd. I 've seen him lead the field, 
On a hot day, in mowing, and against 
Us younger men ; and I have wrestled 

with him. 
He threw me like a feather. I have 

seen him 
Lift up a barrel with his single hands. 
Which two strong men could hardly lift 

together, 
And, holding it above his head, drink 
from it. 
Hathoryie. That is enough ; we need 
not question further. 
What answer do you make to this, Giles 
Corey ? 
Mary. See there ! See there ! 
Hathorne. What is it ? I see nothing. 
Mary. Look! Look! It is the ghost 
of Robert Goodell, 
Whom fifteen years ago this man did 

murder 
By stamping on his body ! In his 

shroud 
He comes here to bear witness to the 
crime ! 

( The croivd shrinks back from Corey 
in horror.) 

Hathorne. Ghosts of the dead and 

voices of the living 
Bear witness to your guilt, and you 

must die ! 
It might have been an easier death. 

Vour doom 
Will be on your own head, and not on 

ours. 
Twice more will you be questioned of 

these things ; 
Twice more have room to plead or to 

confess. 
If you are contumacious to the Court, 
And if, when questioned, you refuse to 

answer. 
Then by the Statute you will be con- 
demned 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



193 



To the peine forte et dure I To have 

your body 
Pressed by great weights until you shall 

be dead ! 
And may the Lord have mercy on your 

soul ! 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — CoRKY^s/arm as in A ct II. 
Sce7ie 1. Enter Richard Gardner, 
looking round him. 

Gardner. Here stands the house as 
I remember it, 

The four tall poplar-trees before the 
door; 

The house, the bam, the orchard, and 
the well. 

With its moss-covered bucket and its 
trough ; 

The garden, with its hedge of currant- 
bushes ; 

The woods, the harvest-fields ; and, far 
beyond. 

The pleasant landscape stretching to the 
sea. 

But everything is silent and deserted ! 

No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, 

No sound of flails, that should be beat- 
ing now ; 

Nor man nor beast astir. What can 
this mean ? 

{Knocks at the door.) 

What ho ! Giles Corey ! Hillo-ho ! Giles 

Corey ! — 
No answer but the echo from the barn, 
And the ill-omened cawing of the crow. 
That yonder wings his flight across the 

fields, 
As if he scented carrion in the air. 
{Enter Tituba with a basket.) 

What woman 's this, that, like an appa- 
rition, 
Haunts this deserted homestead in 

broad day? 
Woman, who are you ? 

Tituba. I am Tituba. 

I am John Indian's wife. I am a 
Witch. 
Gardner. What are you doing here ? 
Tituba. I 'm gathering herbs, — 

Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and penny- 
royal. 



Gardner {looking at the herbs). This 
is not cinquefoil, it is deadly 
nightshade ! 
This is not saxifi-age, but hellebore ! 
This is not pennyroyal, it is henbane ! 
Do you come here to poison these good 
people ? 
Tituba. I get these for the Doctor 
in the Village. 
Beware of Tituba. I pinch the children; 
Make little poppets and stick pins in 

them, 
And then the children cry out they are 

pricked. 
The Black Dog came to me, and said, 

" Serve me !" 
I was afraid. He made me hurt the 
children. 
Gardner. Poor soul ! She's crazed, 

with all these Devil's doings. 

Tituba. Will you, sir, sign the Book ? 

Gardner. No, I '11 not sign it. 

Where is Giles Corey ? Do you know 

Giles Corey ? 

Tittiba, He 's safe enough. He 's 

down there in the prison. 
Gardner. Corey in prison ? What 

is he accused of? 
Tituba. Giles Corey and Martha Co- 
rey are in prison 
Down there in Salem Village. Both 

are Witches. 
She came to me and whispered, " Kill 

the children ! " 
Both signed the Book ! 

Gardner. Begone, you 

imp of darkness ! 
You Devil's dam ! 

Tittiba. Beware of Tituba 1 

lExit. 
Gardner. How often out at sea on 
stormy nights. 
When the waves thundered round me, 

and the wind 
Bellowed, and beat the canvas, and my 

ship 
Clove through the solid darkness, like 

a wedge, 
I 've thought of him, upon his pleasant 

farm, 
Living in quiet with his thrifty house- 
wife. 
And envied him, and wished his fate 
were mine ! 



194 



THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 



And now I find him shipwrecked ut- 

terly, 
Drifting upon this sea of sorceries, 
And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid of 

man ! [Exit. 

Scene 1 1. — The prison. Giles Co- 
rey at a table on which are some 
papers. 

Corey. Now I have done with earth 

and all its cares ; 
I give my worldly goods to my dear 

children ; 
My body I bequeath to my tormentors, 
And my immortal soul to Him who 

made it. 
O God ! who in thy wisdom dost afflict 

me 
With an affliction greater than most 

men 
Have ever yet endured or shall endure, 
Suffer me not in this last bitter hour 
For any pains of death to fall from thee ! 

(Martha is heard singing.) 

Arise, O righteous Lord ! 

And disappoint ray foes ; 
They are but thine avenging- sword, 

Whose wounds are swift to close. 

Corey. Hark, hark ! it is her voice 1 
She is not dead ! 
She lives ! I am not utterly forsaken ! 

(Martha, singing-) 

By thine abounding grace 

And mercies multiphed, 
I shall awake, and see thy face ; 

I shall be satisfied. 

(Corey hides his/ace in his hands. 
Enter the } aiiseyi, followed by Rich- 
ard Gardner.) 

Jailer. Here 's a seafaring man, one 
Richard Gardner, 
A friend of yours, who asks to speak 
with you. 

(Corey rises. They embrace.) 

Corey. I 'm glad to see you, ay, 

right glad to see you. 
Gar drier. And I most sorely 

grieved to see you thus. 
Corey. Of all the friends I had in 

happier days, 



You are the first, ay, and the only one, 

That comes to seek me out in my dis- 
grace ! 

And you but come in time to say fare- 
well. 

They 've dug my grave already in the 
field. 

I thank you. There is something in 
your presence, 

I know not what it is, that gives me 
strength. 

Perhaps it is the bearing of a man 

Familiar with all dangers of the deep, 

Familiar with the cries of drowning 
men, 

With fire, and wreck, and foundering 
ships at sea ! 
Gard7ier. Ah, I have never known a 
wreck like yours ! 

Would I could save you ! 

Corey. Do not speak of that. 

It is too late. I am resolved to die. 
Gardner. Why would you die who 
have so much to live for ? — 

Your daughters, and — 

Corey. You cannot say the word. 

My daughters have gone from me. 
They are married ; 

They have their homes, their thoughts, 
apart from me ; 

I will not say their hearts, —that were 
too cruel. 

What would you have me do ? 

Gardner. Confess and live. 

Corey. That 's what they said who 
came here yesterday 

To lay a heavy weight upon my con- 
science . 

By telling me that I was driven forth 

Asan unworthy member of their church. 
Gardner. It is an awful death. 
Corey. '^' is but to drown, 

And have the weight of all the seas 
upon you. 
Gardner. Say something; say 
enough to fend off death 

Till this tornado of fanactiism 

Blows itself out. Let me come m be- 
tween you 

And your severer self, with my plam 
sense ; 

Do not be obstinate. 

Corey. I ^i^^ "ot plead 

If I deny, I am condemned already, 



GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 



195 



In courts where ghosts appear as wit- 
nesses, 
And swear men's lives away. If I con- 
fess, 
Then I confess a lie, to buy a life 
Which is not life, but only death in 

life. 
I will not bear false witness against 

any, 
Not even against myself, whom I count 

least. 
Gardner {aside). Ah, what a noble 

character is this ! 
Corey- I pray you, do not urge me 

to do that 
Vou would not do yourself. I have 

already 
The bitter taste of death upon my 

lips; 
T feel the pressure of the heavy weight 
That will crush out my life within this 

hour ; 
But if a word could save me, and that 

word 
Were not the Truth ; nay, if it did but 

swerve 
A hair's-breadth from the Truth, I 

would not say it ! 
Gardner {aside). How mean I seem 

beside a man like this ! 
Corey. As for my wife, my Martha 

and my Martyr, — 
Whose virtues, like the stars, unseen tjy 

day, 
Though numberless, do but await the 

dark 
To manifest themselves unto all eyes, — 
She who first won me from my evil 

ways. 
And taught me how to live by her ex- 
ample, 
By her example teaches me to die. 
And leads me onward to the better 

life! 
Sheriff {without). Giles Corey ! 

Come ! The hour has struck ! 
Corey. I come ! 

Here is my body ; ye may torture it. 
But the immortal soul ye cannot crush ! 
\_ExeMnt' 



Scene III. — ^ street in the Village. 
Enter Gloyd and others. 

Gloyd. Quick, or we shall be late ! 

A Man. That 's not the way. 

Come here ; come up this lane. 

Gloyd. I wonder now 

If the old man will die, and will not 

speak ? 
He's obstinate enough and toughenougb 
For anything on earth. 

{A bell tolls.) 

Hark! What is thatl 
A Man. The passing bell. He V 

dead ! 
Gloyd. We are too late. 

[Exeunt in haste. 

Scene IV. — A field near the grave- 
yard. Giles Corey lying dead^ 
with a great stone on his breast. 
The Sheriff at his head, Richard 
Gardner at his feet. A crowd 
behind. The bell tolling. Enter 
Hathorne and Mather. 

Hathorne. This is the Potter's Field- 
Behold the fate 

Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, 
vv'hen questioned, 

J^ciuse to plead their guilt or innocence, 

And stubbornly drag death upon them- 
selves. 
Mather. O sight most horrible ! In 
a land like this, 

Spangled with Churches Evangelical, 

Inwrapped in our salvations, must we 
seek 

In mouldering statute-books of English 
Courts 

Some old forgotten Law, to do such 
deeds ? 

Those who lie buried in the Potter's 
Field , 

Will rise again, as surely as ourselves 

That sleep in honored graves with 
epitaphs ; 

And this poor man, whom we have 
made a victim, 

Hereafter will be counted as a martyr ! 



FINALE 

ST. JOHN. 



ST. JOHN. 



Saint John wandering over the face 
of the Earth, 

St. John. The Ages come and go, 
The Centuries pass as Years ; 
My hair is white as the snow, 
My feet are weary and slow, 
The earth is wet with my tears ! 
The kingdoms crumble, and fall 
Apart, like a ruined wall, _ 
Or a bank that is undermined 
By a river's ceaseless flow, 
And leave no trace behind ! 
The world itself is old ; 
The portals of Time unfold 
On hinges of iron, that grate 
And groan with the rust and the weight, 
Like the hinges of a gate 
That hath fallen to decay ; 
But the evil doth not cease ; 
There is war instead of peace, 
Instead of love there is hate ; 
And still I must wander and wait. 
Still I must watch and pray. 
Not forgetting in whose sight, 
A thousand years in their flight 
Are as a single day. 

The life of man is a gleam 
Of light, that comes and goes 
Like the course of the Holy Stream, 
The cityless river, that flows 
From fountains no one knows. 
Through the Lake of Galilee, 
Through forests and level lands, 
Over rocks, and shallows, and sands 
Of a wilderness wild and vast, 
Till it findeth its rest at last 
In the desolate Dead Sea ! 



But alas ! alas for me. 
Not yet this rest shall be ! 

What, then ! doth Charity fail? 

Is Faith of no avail ? 

Is Hope blown out like a light 

By a gust of wind in the night ? 

The clashing of creeds, and the strife 

Of the many beliefs, that in vain 

Perplex man's heart and brain, 

Are naught but the rustle of leaves, 

When the breath of God upheaves 

The boughs of the Tree of Life, 

And they subside again ! 

And I remember still 

The words, and from whom they came, 

Not he that repeateth the name, 

But he that doeth the will ! 

And Him evermore I behold 
Walking in Galilee, 
Through the cornfield's waving gold, 
In hamlet, in wood, and in wold. 
By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. 
He toucheth the sightless eyes ; 
Before him the demons flee : 
To the dead he sayeth : Arise ! 
To the living : Follow me ! 
And that voice still soundeth on 
From the centuries that are gone. 
To the centuries that shall be ! 

From all vain pomps and shows. 
From the pride that overflows. 
And the false conceits of men ; 
From all the narrow rules 
And subtleties of Schools, 
And the craft of tongue and pen ; 
Bewildered in its search, 
Bewildered with the cry : 



ST. JOHN. 



Lo, here ! lo, there, the Church 
Poor, sad Humanity 
Through all the dust and heat 
Turns back with bleeding feet, 
By the weary road it came, 



Unto the simple thought 
By the Great Master taught, 
And that remaineth still : 
Not he that repeateth the name. 
But he that doeth the will ! 



NOTES 



NOTES 



Page 73- The Golden Legend. 

The old Lege7ida Atirea^ or Golden 
Legend, was originally written in Latin, 
in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus 
de Voragine, a Dominican friar, who 
afterwards became Archbishop of 
Genoa, and died in 1292. 

He called his book simply " Legends 
of the Saints." The epithet of Golden 
was given it by his admirers ; for, as 
Wynkin de Worde says, " Like as pass- 
eth gold in value all other metals, so 
this Legend exceedeth all other books." 
But Edward Leigh, in much distress of 
mind, calls it " a book written by a man 
of a leaden heart for the basenesse of the 
errours, that are without wit or reason, 
and of a brazen forehead, for his impu- 
dent boldnesse in reporting things so 
fabulous and incredible." 

This work, the great text-book of the 
legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was 
translated into French in the fourteenth 
century by Jean de Vignay, and in the 
fifteenth into English by William Cax- 
ton. It has lately been made more ac- 
cessible by a new French translation : 
La Legende Doree, tradidte du Latin^ 
par M. G. B. Paris, 1850. There is 
a copy of the original, with the Gesta 
Lo7igobardoru7n appended, in the 
Harvard College Library, Cambridge, 
printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title- 
page is wanting ; and the volume begins 
with the Tabida Legendoruvt. 

I have called this poem the Golden 
Legend, because the story upon which 
it is founded seems to me to surpass all 
other legends in beauty and significance. 



It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the 
Middle Ages,, the virtue of disinterest- 
edness and self-sacrifice, and the power 
of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient 
for all the exigencies of life and death. 
The story is told, and perhaps invented, 
by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minne- 
singer of the twelfth century. The 
original may be found in Mailath's Alt- 
deutsche Gedichte, with a modern Ger- 
man version. There is another in Mar- 
bach's Volksbiicker, No. 32. 

Page 73. 

For these bells have been anointed^ 
A nd baptized ivith holy water t 

The Consecration and Baptism of 
Bells is one of the most curious ceremo- 
nies of the Church in the Middle Ages. 
The Council of Cologne ordained as fol- 
lows : — 

" Let the bells be blessed, as the 
trumpets of the Church militant, by 
which the people are assembled to hear 
the word of God ; the clergy to an- 
nounce his mercy by day, and his truth 
in their nocturnal vigils : that by their 
sound the faithful may be invited to 
prayers, and that the spirit of devotion 
in them may be increased. The fathers 
have also maintained that demons af- 
frighted by the sound of bells calling 
Christians to prayers, would flee away ; 
and when they fled, the persons of 
the faithful would be secure : that 
the destruction of lightnings and whirl- 
winds would be averted, and the spirits 
of the storm ^^{^2X0.^.'''' — Edinburgh 



204 



NOTES. 



Encyclopeedia^ Art. Bells. See also 
Scheible's Kloster, VI. 776. 

Page 83. It is tJu malediction of 
Eve I 

"Nee esses plus quam femina, quae 
nunc etiam ^-i^os transcendis, et quae 
raaledictionem Evae in benedictionem 
vertisti Mariae." — Epistohx Abcelardi 
HeloisscB. 

Page 92. To come back to my text ! 

In gi\"ing this sermon of Friar Cuth- 
bert as a specimen of the Risjcs Pas- 
cJtales, or street-preaching of the monks 
at Easter, I have exaggerated nothing. 
This van,' anecdote, offensive as it is, 
comes from a discourse of Father Bar- 
letta, a Dominican friar of the frfreenth 
century, whose fame as a popular 
preacher was so great, that it gave rise 
to the proverb, 

Nescit predicare 
Qui nescit Barlettare. 

"Among the abuses introduced in 
this centun.-," says Tiraboschi, "was 
that of exciting from the pulpit the 
laughter of the hearers ; as if that were 
the same thing as converting them. 
We have examples of this, not only in 
Italy, but also in France, where the 
sermons of Menot and Maillard, and 
of others, who would make a better ap- 
pearance on the stage than in the pul- 
pit, are still celebrated for such follies." 

if the reader is curious to see how 
far the freedom of speech vs-as carried 
in these popular sermons, he is referred 
to Scheible's Kloster., Vol. I., where 
he will find extracts from Abraham a 
Sancta Clara, Sebastian Frank, and 
others ; and in particular an anonymous 
discourse called Der Grducl der Ver- 
iviistung. The Abomination of Desola- 
tion, preached at Ottakring, a village 
west of Vienna, November 25, 1782, m 
which the license of language is carried 
to its utmost limit 

See also Predicatoriana., ou Revela- 
tions singulieres et atnusantes siir les 
Predicateurs ; parG. P. Pkilontmste. 
(Menin.) This work contains extracts 
from the popular sermons of St, Vin- 



cent Ferrier, Barletta, Menot, Maillard, 
Marini, Raulin, Valladier, De Besse, 
Camus, Pere Andre, Bening, and the 
most eloquent of all, Jacques Br>'daine. 
My authority for the spiritual inter- 
pretation of bell-ringing, which follows, 
is Durandus, Ration. Divin. Ojffic.^ 
Lib. I. cap. 4. 

Page 93. The Nativity : a Mir- 
acle-Play. 

A singular chapter in the histor^' of 
the Middle Ages is that which gives 
account of the early Christian Drama, 
the Mysteries, Moralities, and Miracle- 
Plays, which were at first performed in 
churches, and afterwards in the streets, 
on fixed or mo\-able stages. For the 
most part, the Mysteries were founded 
on the historic portions of the Old 
and New Testaments, and the Miracle- 
Plays on the lives of Saints ; a distinc- 
tion not always obser\-ed, however, 
for in Mr. Wright's " Early Mysteries 
and other Latin Poems of the Twelfth 
and Thirteenth Centuries," the Resur- 
rection of Lazarus is called a Miracle, 
and not a Mysten.-. The Moralities 
were plays, in which the Virtues and 
Vices were personified. 

The earliest religious play, which has 
been preser\-ed, is the Christos Pas- 
chon of Oregon.' Nazianzen, wxitten in 
Oreek, in the fourth centun,-. Next to 
this come the remarkable Latin plays 
of Rosvsitha, the Nun of Oandersheim, 
in the tenth centun,-, which, though 
crude and wanting in artistic construc- 
tion, are marked by a good deal of 
dramatic power and interest. A hand- 
some edition of these plays, \s-ith a 
French translation, has been lately pub- 
lished, entitled Theatre dc Rotsvitha^ 
Religietise allcmande du X^ Siecle. 
Par Charles Magnin. Paris, 1845. 

The most important collections of 
English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays 
are those kno\N-n as the To%\-nley, the 
Chester, and the Coventry' Plays. The 
first of these collections has been pub- 
lished by the Surtees Societ>-, and the 
other two by the Shakespeare Society. 
In his Introduction to the Coventry 
Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halliwell- 



NOTES. 



205 



quotes the following passage from 
Dugdale's Antiquities of IVarwick- 
shire : — 

"Before the suppression of the mon- 
asteries, this city was ver\' famous for 
the pageants, that were played therein, 
upon Corpus-Christi day ; which, oc- 
casioning very great confluence of peo- 
ple thither, from far and near, was of 
no small benefit thereto ; which pa- 
geants being acted with mighty state 
and reverence by the friars of this 
house, had theaters for the severall 
scenes, ven,' large and high, placed up- 
on wheels, and drawn to all the emi- 
nent parts of the cit\', for the better ad- 
vantage of spectators : and contain 'd 
the storv' of the New Testament, com- 
posed into old English Rithme, as ap- 
peareth by an ancient MS. intituled 
Ludus Corporis Christi, ox Ltidus Con- 
ventrice. I have been told by some 
old people, who in their younger years 
were eyewitnesses of these pageants so 
acted, that the yearly confluence of peo- 
ple to see that shew was extraordinary 
great, and yielded no small advantage 
to this city." 

The representation of religious plays 
has not yet been wholly discontinued 
by the Roman Church. At Ober-Am- 
mergau, in the Tyrol, a grand spectacle 
of this kind is exhibited once in ten 
years. A ver}- graphic description of 
that w^hich took place in the year 1850 
is given by Miss Anna Mary Howitt, 
in her "Art-Student in Munich," Vol. 
I. Chap. IV. She says: — 

" We had come expecting to feel our 
souls revolt at so material a representa- 
tion of Christ, as any representation of 
him we naturally imagined must be in 
a peasant's Miracle-Play. Yet so far, 
strange to confess, neither horror, dis- 
gust, nor contempt was excited in our 
minds. Such an earnest solemnity 
and simplicity breathed throughout the 
whole of the performance, that to me, 
at least, anything like anger, or a per- 
ception of the ludicrous, would have 
seemed more irreverent on my part 
than was this simple, childlike render- 
ing of the sublime Christian tragedy. 
We fell at times as though the figures 



of Cimabue's, Giotto's, and Perugino's 
pictures had become animated, and 
were moving before us ; there was the 
same simple arrangement and brilliant 
color of draper\^, — the same earnest, 
quiet dignity about the heads, whilst 
the entire absence of all theatrical ef- 
fect wonderfully increased the illusion. 
There were scenes and groups so ex- 
traordinarily like the early Italian pic- 
tures, that you could have declared they 
were the works of Giotto and Perugino, 
and not li\ang men and women, had not 
the figures moved and spoken, and the 
breeze stirred their richly colored dra- 
per}-, and the sun cast long, mo\ing 
shadows behind them on the stage. 
These effects of sunshine and shadow, 
and of drapery fluttered by the wind, 
were very striking and beautiful ; one 
could imagine how the Greeks must 
have availed themselves of such strik- 
ing effects in their theatres open to the 
sky." 

Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his " Eldora- 
do," gives a description of a Mystery 
he saw performed at San Lionel, in 
Mexico. See Vol. II. Chap. XL 

"Against the wing-wall of the Haci- 
enda del Mayo, which occupied one 
end of the plaza, was raised a platform, 
on which stood a table covered with 
scarlet cloth, A rude bower of cane- 
leaves, on one end of the platform, rep- 
resented the manger of Bethlehem ; 
while a cord, stretched from its top 
across the plaza to a hole in the front 
of the church, bore a large tinsel star, 
suspended by a hole in its centre. 
There was quite a crowd in the plaza, 
and ver}^ soon a procession appeared, 
coming up from the lower part of the 
village. The three kings took the lead ; 
the Virgin, mounted on an ass that 
gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-be- 
sprinkled mane and tail, followed them, 
led by the angel ; and several women, 
with curious masks of paper, brought 
up the rear. Two characters, of the 
harlequin sort — one with a dog's head 
on his shoulders, and the other a bald- 
headed friar, with a huge hat hanging 
on his back — played all sorts of antics 
for the diversion of the crowd. Aftei 



206 



NOTES. 



making the circuit of tl.e plaza, the Vir- 
gin was taken to the platform, and en- 
tered the manger. King Herod took 
his seat at the scarlet table, with an at- 
tendant in blue coat and red sash, whom 
I took to be his Prime Minister. The 
three kings remained on their horses 
in front of the church ; but between 
them and the platform, under the string 
on which the star was to slide, walked 
two men in long white robes and blue 
hoods, with parchment folios in their 
hands. These were the Wise Men of 
the East, as one might readily know 
from their solemn air, and the mysteri- 
ous glances which they cast towards all 
quarters of the heavens. 

" In a little while, a company of wo- 
men on the platform, concealed behind 
a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the 
tune of ' O pescator dell'onda.' At the 
proper moment, the Magi turned to- 
wards the platform, followed by the 
star, to which a string was conveniently 
attached, that it might be slid along the 
line. The three kings followed the 
star till it reached the manger, when 
they dismounted, and inquired for the 
sovereign whom it had led them to 
visit. They w-ere invited upon the 
platform, and introduced to Herod, as 
the only king ; this did not seem to 
satisfy them, and, after some conversa- 
tion, they retired. By this time the 
star had receded to the other end of 
the line, and commenced moving for- 
ward again, they following. The angel 
called them into the manger, where, 
upon their knees, they were shown a 
small wooden box, supposed to contain 
the sacred infant ; they then retired, 
and the star brought them back no more. 
After this departure. King Herod de- 
clared himself greatly confused by what 
he had witnessed, and was ver}^ much 
afraid this newly found king would 
weaken his power. Upon consultation 
with his Prime Minister, the Massacre 
of the Innocents was decided upon, as 
the only means of security. 

" The angel, on hearing this, gave 
warning to the Virgin, who quickly got 
down from the platform, mounted her 
bespangled donkey, and hurried ofif. 



Herod's Prime Minister directed all 
the children to be handed up for exe- 
cution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, 
was caught and thrust forward ; the 
Minister took him by the heels in spite 
of his kicking, and held his head on 
the table. The little brother and sister 
of the boy, thinking he was really to 
be decapitated, yelled at the top of 
their voices, in an agony of terror, 
which threw the crowd into a roar of 
laughter. King Herod brought down 
his sword with a whack on the table, 
and the Prime Minister, dipping his 
brush into a pot of white paint which 
stood before him, made a flaring cross 
on the boy's face. Several other boys 
were caught and served likewise ; and, 
finally, the two harlequins, whose kicks 
and struggles nearly shook down the 
platform. The procession then went 
off up the hill, followed by the whole 
population of the village. All the 
evening there were fandangos in the 
meson, bonfires and rockets on the 
plaza, ringing of bells, and high mass 
in the church, with the accompaniment 
of two guitars, tinkling to lively pol- 
kas." 

In 1852 there was a representation 
of this kind by Germans in Boston : 
and I have now before me the copy of 
a play-bill announcing the perform- 
ance, on June 10, 1852, in Cincinnati, 
of the "Great Biblico-Historical Dra- 
ma, the Life of Jesus Christ," with 
the characters and the names of the 
performers. 

Page loi. The Scriptorium. 

A most interesting volume might be 
written on the Calligraphers and Chry- 
sographers, the transcribers and illumi- 
nators of manuscripts in the Middle 
Ages. These men were for the most 
part monks, who labored, sometimes 
for pleasure and sometimes for penance, 
in multiplying copies of the classics 
and the Scriptures. 

"Of all bodily labors, which are 
proper for us," says Cassiodorus, the 
old Calabrian monk, "that of copying 
books has always been more to my 
taste than anv other. The more so, as 



NOTES. 



207 



in this exercise the mind is instructed 
by the reading of the Holy Scriptures, 
and it is a kind of homily to the others, 
whom these books may reach. It is 
preaching with the hand, by converting 
the fingers into tongues ; it is publish- 
ing to men in silence the words of sal- 
vation ; in fine, it is fighting against 
the demon with pen and ink. As many 
words as a transcriber writes, so many 
wounds the demon receives. In a 
word, a recluse, seated in his chair to 
copy books, travels into different prov- 
inces, without moving from the spot, 
and the labor of his hands is felt even 
where he is not." 

Nearly ever>' monastery was provided 
with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de 
Clairvaux, St. Bernard's secretarj^ in 
one of his letters describes his cell, 
which he calls Scriptoriolum, where he 
copied books. And Mabillon, in his 
Etudes Monastiqnes, says that in his 
time were still to be seen at Citeaux 
*'many of those little cells, where the 
transcribers and bookbinders worked." 

Silvestre's Paleographie Universelle 
contains a vast number of fac-similes 
of the most beautiful illuminated man- 
uscripts of all ages and all coun- 
tries ; and Montfaucon in his Palce- 
ographia Grceca gives the names of 
over three hundred calligraphers. He 
also gives an account of the books they 
copied, and the colophons, with which, 
as with a satisfactory flourish of the 
pen, they closed their long-continued 
labors. Many of these are ver}' curi- 
ous ; expressing joy, humility, remorse ; 
entreating the reader's prayers and par- 
don for the -vNTiter's sins ; and some- 
times pronouncing a malediction on 
any one who should steal the book. 
A few of these I subjoin : — 

"As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their 
native land, so are transcribers made 
glad, beholding the end of a book." 

" Sweet is it to write the end of any 
book." 

" Ye who read, pray for me, who 
have written this book, the humble and 
sinful Theodulus." 

"As many therefore as shall read 
this book, pardon me, I beseech you, 



if aught I have erred in accent acute 
and grave, in apostrophe, in breathing 
soft or aspirate ; and may God save you 
all! Amen." 

'' If anything is well, praise the tran- 
scriber: if ill, pardon hisunskilfulness." 

"Ye who read, pray for me, the most 
sinful of all men, for the Lord's sake." 

"The hand that has written this 
book shall decay, alas ! and become 
dust, and go down to the grave, the 
corrupter of all bodies. But all ye who 
are of the portion of Christ, pray that I 
may obtain the pardon of my sins. 
Again and again I beseech you with 
tears, brothers and fathers, accept my 
miserable supplication, O holy choir ! 
I am called John, woe is me ! I am 
called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name 
only, not inunction." 

"Whoever shall carry away this 
book, without permission of the Pope, 
may he incur the malediction of the 
Holy Trinity, of the Holy ^Mother of 
God, of Saint John the Baptist, of the 
one hundred and eighteen holy Nicene 
Fathers, and of all the Saints ; the fate 
of Sodom and Gomorrah ; and the hal- 
ter of Judas ! Anathema, amen." 

" Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, 
and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with 
which I have written this book." 

" Mathusalas Machir transcribed 
this divinest book in toil, infirmity, 
and dangers many." 

" Bacchius Barbardorius and Mi- 
chael Sophianus w-rote this book in 
sport and laughter, being the guests of 
their noble and common friend Vin- 
centius Pinellus, and Petrus Nunnius, 
a most learned man." 

This last colophon, Montfaucon does 
not suffer to pass without reproof. 
"Other calligraphers," he remarks, 
"demand only the prayers of their 
readers, and the pardon of their sins ; 
but these glory in their wantonness." 

Page 105. Drink donvnto your peg I 

One of the canons of Archbishop 
Anselm, promulgated at the beginning 
of the twelfth century, ordains "that 
priests go not to drinking-bouts, nor 
drink to pegs." In the times of the 



2o8 



NOTES. 



hard-drinking Danes, King Edgar or- 
dained that " pins or nails should be 
fastened into the drinking-cups or 
horns at stated distances, and whoso- 
ever should drink beyond those marks 
at one draught should be obnoxious to 
a severe punishment." 

Sharpe, in his Histor}' of the Kings of 
England, says: "Our ancestors were 
formerly famous for compotation ; their 
liquor was ale, and one method of 
amusing themselves in this way was 
with the peg-tankard. I had lately 
one of them in my hand. It had on 
the inside a row of eight pins, one 
above another, from top to bottom. It 
held two quarts, and was a noble piece 
of plate, so that there was a gill of ale, 
half a pint Wincester measure, between 
each peg. The law was, that every 
person that drank was to empty the 
space between pin and pin, so that the 
pins were so many measures to make the 
company all drink alike, and to swal- 
low the same quantity of liquor. _ This 
was a pretty sure method of making all 
the company drunk, especially if it be 
considered that the rule was, that who- 
ever drank short of his pin, or beyond 
it, was obliged to drink again, and even 
as deep as to the next pin." 

Page 105. The convent of St. Gil- 
das de RJuiys. 

Abelard, in a letter to his friend 
Philintus, gives a sad picture of this 
monastery. " I live," he says, " in a 
barbarous country, the language of 
which 1 do not understand ; I have no 
conversation but with the rudest peo- 
ple, my walks are on the inaccessible 
shore of a sea, which is perpetually 
stormy, my monks are only known by 
their dissoluteness, and living without 
any rule or order, could you see the 
abby, Philintus, you would not call it 
one. the doors and walks are without 
any ornament, except the heads of wild 
boars and hinds feet, which are nailed 
up against them, and the hides of fright- 
ful animals, the cells are hung with 
the skins of deer, the monks have not 
so much as a bell to wake them, the 
cocks and dogs supply that defect, in 



short, they pass their whole days in 
hunting ; would to heaven that were 
their greatest fault ! or that their pleas- 
ures terminated there ! I endeavor in 
vain to recall them to their duty ; they 
all combine against me, and I only ex- 
pose myself to continual vexations and 
dangers. I imagine I see every mo- 
ment a naked sword hang over my 
head, sometimes they surround me, 
and load me with infinite abuses ; 
sometimes they abandon me, and I 
am left alone to my own tormenting 
thoughts. I make it my endeavor to 
merit by my sufferings, and to appease 
an angr\' God. sometimes I grieve for 
I the loss of the house of the Paraclete, 
j and wish to see it again, ah Philintus, 
does not the love of Heloise still bura 
in my heart ? I have not yet triumphed 
over that unhappy passion, in the 
midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, 
I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise, 
and am pleased to hear the sound." — 
Letters of the Celebrated Abelard and 
Heloise. Trafislated by Mr. John 
Hug lies. Glasgow, 1751. 

Page 113. Were it not for my 
jnagic garters and staff. 

The method of making the Magic 
Garters and the Magic Staff is thus 
laid down in Les Secrets Merveilleux 
du Petit Albert, a French translation 
of Alberti Parvi Liicii Libe litis de 
Mirabilihts Xaturce A rcanis : — 

"Gather some of the herb called 
motherwort, when the sun is entering 
the first degree of the sign of Capri- 
corn ; let it 6x\ a little in the shade, 
and make some garters of the skin of a 
young hare ; that is to say, having cut 
the skin of the hare into strips two 
inches wide, double them, sew the 
before-mentioned herb between, and 
wear them on your legs. No horse 
can long keep up with a man on foot, 
who is furnished with these garters." 
— p. 128. 

"Gather, on the morrow of All- 
Saints, a strong branch of willow, of 
which you will make a staff, fashioned 
to your liking. Hollow it out, by re- 
moving the pith fi-ora within, after hav- 



NOTES. 



209 



ing furnished the lower end with an 
iron ferule. Put into the bottom of 
the staff the two eyes of a young wolf, 
the tongue and heart of a dog, three 
green lizards, and the hearts of three 
swallows. These must all be dried in 
the sun, between two papers, having 
been first sprinkled with finely pul- 
verized saltpetre. Besides all these, 
put into the staff seven leaves of ver- 
vain, gathered on the eve of St. John 
the Baptist, with a stone of divers 
colors, which you will find in the nest 
of the lapwing, and stop the end of the 
staff with a pomel of box, or of any 
other material you please, and be as- 
sured, that the staff will guarantee you 
from the perils and mishaps which too 
often befall travellers, either from rob- 



bers, wild beasts, mad dogs, or venom- 
ous animals. It will also procm-e you 
the good-will of those with whom you 
lodge." — p 130. 

Page no. Saint Elffto^s stars. 

So the Italian sailors call the phos- 
phorescent gleams that sometimes play 
about the masts and rigging of ships. 

Page 116. The School 0/ Salerno. 

For a history of the celebrated 
schools of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, 
the reader is referred to Sir Alexander 
Croke's Introduction to the Regimen 
Sanitatis Salernitanum ; and to Kurt 
Sprengel's Geschichte der Arzneikun- 
de, I. 463, or Jourdan's French trans- 
lation 0/" it, Histoire de la Medicine, 
11. 354- 



J,JN 129 1899 



